


Blue Lights

by CathyC



Category: The X-Files
Genre: BlueLights, Colorado, Gen, Pueblo, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:32:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 71,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CathyC/pseuds/CathyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully are called to Pueblo, Colorado to investigate a train accident at a Department of Transportation facility. The locals blame the wreck on a phenomenon called "Blue LIghts". </p>
<p>Set early in the series canon (written between seasons 2 and 3), this is told from a time when their relationship was still somewhat antagonistic, in omniscient third person, multiple POVs. This is a full-length novel originally intended to become one of the novelizations the studio authorized, so there's no slash, no canon crossing--just Mulder and Scully being Mulder and Scully. </p>
<p>It's based around a real-life legend/phenomenon in my hometown, and includes places I worked. People from the area will recognize some of actual facilities. This was written early in my career as a professional writer. It's not as clean as some of my later original works, but I hope you enjoy it as a fan of the series!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One of Two

**Author's Note:**

> The first paragraph indent moves from left flush to first line indent. Sorry about that. I haven't figured out what to remove in HTML to change that. I hope it won't be too distracting, since it's at least consistent between chapters.

# BLUE LIGHTS

A novelization of The X-Files television series

 

By Cathy Clamp

### Chapter 1

#### U.S. Department of Transportation Technology Center

Pueblo, Colorado

March 18 - 8:21 p.m. 

A sharp whistle cut through the stillness of the prairie night. He eased the throttle back, and felt 125 tons of rolling iron heel to his command. Project Director Roberto Lopez was at peace. As he and his train moved through the night, he forgot the pressures of his job, the paperwork, and the endless meetings with people he didn't like or didn't care to know. Called Bob by his many friends, he was a railroad engineer--first and always, no matter how he was employed at the moment. He knew he was lucky. His job provided for his family well, and he was able to work near the trains he loved.

As the train moved around the next curve, the headlights briefly picked out a trio of coyotes in the sagebrush, their eyes glowing red, before they disappeared into the shadows. _Nights like this were meant for introspection._

He marveled at how he came to be here, moving quickly through the hierarchy of this place. He was one of the few in the management staff that came up from ground level. He started out setting ties and spreading ballast. It was hard, dirty work that made him respect the men and women around him. He became an engineer because he couldn't imagine anything else. Because he always treated everyone around him with the same dignity as he expected, people responded. He became known for having a way with people, and that skill got him promoted, over and over again, until he became the Director, the top dog.

But he missed this life, this calling, and so, when he was feeling particularly dissatisfied with his work, he would use a little of his influence to rearrange schedules so he could again sit in the driver's seat; to remind him of why he was here. Nobody minded. The other engineers just winked when his name came up on the rotation, and respectfully stepped aside for a night.

They knew.

They understood.

He pulled the cord again, for no reason, and felt a shudder as the mournful song of the rails pierced the air. The powerful engine vibrated beneath him, around him, with a life all its own. Even though he was on a track to nowhere, it still felt like the real thing. He sighed as he pulled out his radio and easily spoke the language and codes that would let the station know that everything was well and he was coming home. _Like riding a bike; you never forget._ He rounded the next corner and started to slow the train to come into the station.

The landscape illuminated by the headlight suddenly seemed hazy, and he blinked his eyes and rubbed them to refocus. As he opened his eyes, he gasped.

His body tensed into a coil of energy honed by years of experience. Directly ahead of him on the track were three bright lights, formed in a triangle. Another train _How in the name of all that was holy did somebody get another engine onto the track? Didn't they hear that I'm on my way in? Why would they authorize another engine in this area?_ His hand automatically reached for the cord, blasting a warning that he was there. He knew it was a waste of time.

There was no time to get out.

No time for regret. No time for anything at all . . . except to die.

As the lights rushed toward him, his hand remained on the whistle cord, screaming his presence to the world. He didn't stand; didn't move. There was no place to go.

He wondered why he heard no other sounds, no answering whistle, no roaring engine.

The oncoming headlights seemed to have a blue tint through the haze.

His lungs became heavy. He couldn't breathe. He knew something was wrong, something familiar, something he had seen before, long ago. His mind saw visions of flames raining in a jungle, as fire, searing heat unlike anything he had ever known, erupted around him.

Just before his eyes stopped relaying signals to his brain, he saw the engine collapse in toward him, crumpling like tissue paper. Fragments of steel embedded themselves in his face and chest. He was dead long before the flames touched him, felt no pain as the flying steel slivers cut his face. His body was tossed like a rag doll against the instrument panel. When the haze cleared, he appeared to be standing, his eyes open.

His hand still grasped the cord to the now silent whistle in a death grip.

### Chapter 2

FBI Headquarters  
Washington, D.C.  
March 24 - 10:51 a.m.

Dana Scully knocked on the unmarked door in the basement of the FBI Headquarters building. She heard a man's voice mutter, "Yeah?" in response to her knock, and she went in.

Fox Mulder was sitting, his feet on his desk, reading a thick file. He was tall and slim, with dark hair slightly longer than FBI standards. He appeared to be fresh out of college, but his looks belied his keen intelligence. He had degrees in criminal psychology from Harvard and Oxford as well as over ten years experience as a FBI field agent. He also possessed a photographic memory, and an abnormal interest in the unknown.

Scully's heels clicked on the concrete floor. She felt mildly surprised as she walked toward his desk. The office was relatively clean, by Mulder's standards.

By her standards, it was a pit.

Newspapers, files, and every imaginable book, from reference text to science fiction novels, lined the walls, covered his desk and were stacked on the floor. Today, there was actually a path through the mess. She would have to remember to comment on it.

Mulder's furniture consisted mostly of castoffs from other offices. Bookshelves, none matching, lined the walls, and were filled to overflowing. Filing cabinets had been squeezed in helter-skelter wherever they would fit. The drawers were stuffed so full that they wouldn't shut completely. His desk was of 1940's vintage.

The only completely state-of-the-art items in the room were his ergonomic desk chair, his computer and a light table for viewing photograph slides. An unframed poster hung on the wall behind his desk. It was a fuzzy photograph of a UFO, with the logo _I WANT TO BELIEVE._

"Did you want to see me?" She ran fingers through her shoulder-length red hair, her blue eyes questioning.

"Yeah, sit down, Scully.", said Mulder with a grin.

She cleared off a stack of file folders from the only guest chair in the room and lightly sat down.

“What's up, Mulder? I don't like that smile." She narrowed her eyes at the grin.

"Actually, Scully, you're going to like this. Grab your six guns and pack your skis. We're going on vacation!" he said. He took his feet down off his desk and walked around to lean on the front of the desk, facing her.

"Vacation? To where?" She was suspicious. Anytime Mulder was this happy, something strange was going to happen.  


"How does Colorado sound?" Mulder reached into his pocket and removed two envelopes, waving them gently in front of her.

Scully decided to just sit there, arms folded across her chest, eyebrows raised, and wait him out.

She didn't have to wait long.

"Okay, okay, just maybe there's an X-file involved." As she suspected, it was the reason for the impish grin.  
The files beginning with the letter "X" were the matters the government was forced to investigate because they involved government employees or projects, but which were unexplainable at best, or at worst, explainable in a manner they didn't want to hear. Mulder considered it his duty and his calling to investigate them, and Scully was assigned to Mulder to keep him grounded in reality.

"Uh-huh" she said, imagining the worst, "And what is it this time? Bigfoot? Werewolves?"

"No, actually, a train crash. Steve Forman called me. I don't know if you’ve met him. He was in one of my Psych classes at Oxford, and was my roommate for my first semester at the Academy. He's in the FBI’s Denver Office, works on bank robberies. One of the best there is on profiling bank jobs."

"I think I've heard of him. Why did he leave Washington for Denver? Seems like a step backward,"

Mulder smiled. "Actually, that's an amusing story. He was working on the profile of a nation-wide bank ring. Several occurred in the Denver area that fit his profile, and he went undercover at one of the banks that he felt would be a target. The bank was hit, the ring caught, and he unexpectedly fell in love with one of the bank tellers. He also fell in love with Colorado. He requested a transfer to Denver, got married, and now has three kids."

"And what is it about this train crash that has the FBI involved in the first place? Aren't most railroads private?" asked Scully. She assumed that he would automatically tell her why it was an X-file.

Mulder popped a sunflower seed into his mouth. "Normally, yes. But the site where the accident occurred is a Department of Transportation testing facility of some sort. Although the people that work there are employees of the private contractor, the DOT Project Director of the site, who was an engineer himself, happened to have been taking a joyride the night the collision occurred." He leaned over slightly to spit the twin sunflower husks into the waste basket.

Scully nodded her head, urging him to continue. She wondered how he managed to shell the sunflower seeds inside his mouth like that---especially while talking. She had watched carefully several times recently, and had never seen him actually bite or tongue the shell to open it.

"It seems that the County Sheriff who investigated the accident couldn't determine what the train crashed into. The front of the engine was apparently smashed into scrap metal, but they couldn't find any evidence of another participant to the accident, either a train or car, or an animal. The interior of the engine cab was scorched, and the engineer, who died, was badly burned. They suspected a bomb of some sort, and called the Denver branch in."

"So, how do we fit in?" asked Scully, becoming interested for the first time. Scully was a scientist. The unknown excited her as much as Mulder, but she could not accept the unexplainable. Where Mulder was content to see UFOs and government conspiracies, Scully needed hard scientific evidence. Unfortunately, she had come to find that when she investigated cases with Mulder, often science wouldn't. . .or couldn't, be bent to explain the realities she saw with her own eyes.

Mulder had a serious expression on his face now, as he did every time he began to warm to a subject. "Funny you should ask. I asked Steve the same question. He said that the whole case seemed "spooky" to him, and he thought I should definitely be involved."

Scully winced, knowing Mulder's dislike of the derogatory nickname, "Spooky", that was used behind his back.

"Maybe you weren't aware of it," continued Mulder, "But it was Steve who first gave me the nickname 'Spooky' at the Academy. It was just a friendly joke between us, and I've never minded him calling me that, but then other people started using it in a somewhat less than friendly manner---" he said, his eyes narrowing darkly, then clearing, like a cloud passing across the sun.

"But that's beside the point. The Denver office isn't very big, and everybody pitches in when they're busy. Steve was one of the agents assigned to investigate the accident. He said the interior of the cab was toast, but there were no flame marks on the outside of the engine compartment, which is why they suspected a bomb. The only problem is, they did tests on all the major surfaces of the cab interior, and guess what they didn't find?" Mulder asked.

He waited expectantly.

"Okay, I'll bite, what didn't they find?" said Scully.

"They didn't find any nitrates. None at all. Not even in the nanogram range." said Mulder with a grin.

"No nitrates? But that's not possible. Nearly every explosion leaves behind nitrates as residual." Scully's scientific mind started turning, thinking of any scenario where the rule wouldn't apply. She shrugged. "Were there any traces of chlorides? I can't think of any other type of bomb that wouldn't leave traces of nitrates."

"Nope. But listen, that's only the beginning, Scully. The County coroner that examined the body of the engineer found some strange things, too. Whatever destroyed the front end of a 250,000 pound diesel electric engine did not kill the engineer. The trauma caused by the collision occurred after his heart stopped beating." said Mulder, eyebrows raised, waiting for Scully to bite on the bait.

"Well, he probably died of smoke inhalation from the fire." replied Scully, who was a medical doctor, specializing in forensic pathology, with an additional degree in physics.

"Nope, nice try, though. You get an 'A' for effort. The coroner didn't find any smoke in the lungs, suggesting that the lungs also had ceased to function before the fire started."

"Heart attack?" suggested Scully.

"Nope."

"Brain aneurysm?"

"Good thought, but no. The coroner already thought of those." said Mulder.

Scully was becoming annoyed with his infuriating grin. "Okay, then, what killed the engineer?" she finally asked, exasperated.

"I don't know. That's what we're going there to find out." Mulder replied, tossing another seed into his mouth.

### Chapter 3

#### Denver International Airport

Denver, Colorado  
March 25 - 2:14 p.m.

 

            As Mulder and Scully exited the plane, they got their first look at the new international airport that had been a subject of much debate in Washington.  The multi-colored marble floor tiles gleamed in the natural lighting from the fabric tent roof.  As they walked toward the escalators to the baggage area, Scully was drawn toward a wall of windows that opened onto the prairie. 

            The afternoon sun glinted off the snowcapped mountains in the distance.  Mulder joined her as they gazed at the scene.  The sky was a perfect azure blue, and a breeze moved gently through the grass, leaving patterns of shadows as it passed.  As they looked, small, dark dots appeared in the distance.  They quickly moved closer, twisting and turning like a flock of birds in flight, the dust becoming a cloud behind them.

 

             Mulder's jaw dropped as he recognized them.  "Are those what I think they are?" he asked in awe.

             "They look like . . ." replied Scully, eyes wide.

             "Buffalo", came a voice from behind them.

             They turned to see a tall man in a dark blue jacket, with a tag identifying him as an airport employee.  He had a thick shock of natural dark hair, his fine features beaming with a congenial smile.

              "Technically, bison", he said.  "Beautiful, aren't they?"

              Scully spoke first.  "Do they raise them here, or are they wild?"

              "Both.  They're a raised herd, but they are wild.  The owners have leased the land around the airport for grazing the bison.  It's part of an experimental project to see if the original prairie can be reclaimed." he explained.

               "How would buffalo... I mean, bison, figure into reclamation of the prairie?" asked Mulder.

               "Actually, bison are a very important part of the total ecosystem of the prairie.  The bison eat grasses and flowers and distribute the seeds to new location in their manure.  The manure also fertilizes growing plants.  Their hooves are very sharp and hard as iron.  As they run, they plow the prairie floor, allowing seeds to move below the surface soil to grow." he explained.

                Mulder pursed his lips, eyebrows raised.  "I didn't know that," he said.

               "We're fortunate that the local colleges have maintained seed banks of original native prairie plants, which they have been raising into seedlings and transplanting out here.  They're trying to see if reintroducing bison to the area can return this area to its former state.  If it works here, they will try it in other places where overgrazing has allowed sagebrush and yucca to take over.  Given the chance, the prairie can recover by itself.  It's just a shame that we couldn't see it earlier," he sighed, shaking his head, "But it's a good thing we caught on before it was too late."

               They watched the scene for a moment longer.  "Where are you folks headed?" he asked.

               "Pueblo", Mulder replied.

              "Well, you picked a good time of year, they're having great weather down there.  Ever been there before?" he said.

              "No, what type of weather can we expect?" asked Scully.

              "Well, for Colorado in general, and especially in Pueblo, the rule of thumb is, wear a short sleeve T-shirt and a down coat." he said with a chuckle.  "Pueblo is about two hours due south of here.  It's considered high plains desert.  The climate is close to that of New Mexico or Arizona, with a few eccentricities."

             "Does the weather change that dramatically?" Scully asked.

             "Oh, yes, Ma'am.  It can be 75 degrees at 10:00 in the morning and be 20 degrees by 3:00 p.m."  he said.  "It's best to plan ahead and wear layers that you can take off or put on at a moment's notice."

             "What about skiing?" Scully asked.

             "Well, obviously, there are no mountains in Pueblo." he said.  Scully glared daggers at Mulder, wondering what she was going to do with her skis.  _Well, I can always wrap them around his neck_ , she thought evilly.

             "But", he went on, "the southern mountains have really been getting dumped on with snow this season.  There are ski areas in the southern range where the skiing is as good or better than Vail or Aspen."

             Mulder let out a slow breath, probably a sigh of relief.

             "Well, you folks have a good trip.  If you need anything while you're here at the airport, or on your way back, let me know.  My name's Tom Corsentino, and I'll be pleased to help you out." 

            He reached out his hand, and shook both Mulder's and Scully's.  His handshake would have made his public relations instructor proud.  He had quickly sized up both Mulder and Scully, and, despite the size of his hand, which was enormous by any standards.  He precisely measured his grip to give the impression that each person was dealing with a friend, and an equal.

              "You're a great tour guide." said Mulder, "they should have you meet all the planes."

              "Pleased to have been of service", he said as he turned and walked away.

               Mulder and Scully moved to the baggage claim area and retrieved their luggage.  Scully clumsily juggled her skis and luggage.  Mulder, still feeling guilty about the prospects for skiing, relieved her of her bags and carried them to the next concourse.

             "Tell me a little more about Steve Forman.  What kind of man is he?" asked Scully, as they walked toward the ticket counter.

             "When I roomed with him, he was the definitive preppie.  He came from an upstanding New England family.  Very old money.  Very straight-laced.  Very prim and proper.  He was perfect for the FBI.  The ideal agent.  I drove him nuts!" said Mulder with a smirk.

             Scully could imagine how that would happen.  Mulder wouldn't be the easiest person to live with.  He wasn't the easiest person to work with.

            "I hope you have a chance to meet Ginny while we're here," said Mulder.

            "And Ginny is . . .?" asked Scully.

            "Ginny is Steve's wife, the bank teller," responded Mulder.  "She's a riot!  They're the original odd couple.  While Steve is dignified old money, Ginny--born Virginia Mae--is the quizessential flamboyant cowgirl.  She's into cold beer, fringed shirts, and rodeos.  She doesn't watch, she participates.  And country/western music.  When I knew Steve, his loves were classical music, vintage wine, polo and starched everything.  To give you an idea, Scully, Steve irons sheets."

            Scully looked at him sideways as they checked their bags for the commuter plane to Pueblo.  "That's a little obsessive," she said.  Scully was a bit of a neat-freak herself, but even she could tolerate minor disorder.

            "Steve is obsessive!  He moves the furniture every week to vacuum under it, and you can eat off the kitchen floor.  Ginny thinks nothing of mucking out the corral and then walking across the living room rug in her boots to get a drink from the kitchen."  Mulder was almost laughing now.

            Scully winced as she imagined someone walking across her own carpet in manure-covered boots.  "How long have they been together?  The must have come to some sort of truce if they have three kids." commented Scully.

            "Oh, they made a truce all right.  Steve designed and built their home so that Ginny has to come through a mud room before she can set foot inside.  There's only one entrance to the house.  No back door.  She takes off her boots and washes up, and then comes in.  And, in return, he's learned to live with a certain . . . rustic clutter.  Honestly, though, you can't help but like Ginny.  She has a zest for life.  She's drop-dead gorgeous, and she's incredibly intelligent, probably more so than both of us combined," said Mulder.  "Her I.Q.'s in the 170 range . . ."

            Scully raised her eyebrows.

            "But she's not at all pretentious.  She has a great sense of humor, loves a good party, and she's so annoyingly cheerful that she makes Hare Krishnas look sad by comparison."

            Scully uttered a short chuckle.  "She sounds like she's one of a kind, all right."

            "She is," said Mulder.  "That's why Steve's kept her.  He told me that the streets are safer that way."

            They heard the loudspeaker call their flight, and they moved toward the gate.  Their footsteps echoed in the covered walkway as they entered the small plane.

            As they took off in the commuter plane to Pueblo, Scully looked out the window, and gazed again at the spectacular mountain range.  She wondered why she had never come here before, and understood why Steve Forman would leave Washington to stay.  She reluctantly turned her gaze from the scenery back to the open file folder on her lap, and began to review again the statements of the two eye witnesses.

 

 

### Chapter 4

 

#### ;U.S. Department of Transportation Technology Center 

Pueblo, Colorado

March 18 - 11:20 p.m.

 

            Toby Granger and Kim Delaney sat in the foreman's office, looking worried.  They knew they had reason to be, since this incident could end their careers.

            "Okay, just one more time, what exactly did you see and hear after you saw the engine stopped on the track?" asked the foreman.

            Toby began.  "Like we told you, we were taking readings on the instrumentation on the south side of the FAST Track.  The calibrations on the chromium rail section had come back skewed, and Roger wanted to get a new reading for the same 24 hour period so his month end report to the client wouldn't be off."

            "And I went with Toby, 'cause it's hard to hold a flashlight and write measurements down on the chart." Kim added.

            "So where were you two in relation to the location of the train?" asked Maurice "Mo" Baker, the night foreman.

            Toby sighed and rubbed his brown eyes.  "The train was on the north side of the loop, at about mile 2.5.  We were on the south side of the loop, directly across from the train.  But Mo, it was pitch dark out, and I couldn't see the train except for the headlight.  That's how we knew that it had stopped moving."

            "So, you didn't see a fire?" asked Mo.

            "No." said Toby.

            "Kim?" he asked, turning to his left.

            "Nothing, Mo, I swear.  It was dark, and we would have been able to see a fire a mile away.  We were less than a quarter mile from the train", replied Kim, standing up briefly and stretching her back.  It had been a long night.  Her short straw-colored hair  hung loosely around her face.  Her deep green eyes were bloodshot and half-closed.

            "What did you see when you approached the train?" asked Mo.

            "Well, before that, we tried to raise Bob on the radio, to see if anything was wrong.  We didn't think we needed to walk all the way over there if he was just taking a whiz.  He didn't answer, so we called dispatch to see what was up.  Dispatch reported that Bob had checked in just a few minutes before and was on his way in.  That's when we decided to walk over." replied Toby.

            Kim nodded, but furrowed her brow and added a new element to the story, "But I remember something else.  The engine was shut down.  I didn't think about it at first, but it was utterly still out there."  Toby looked at her, remembering, and nodded.  "You're right.  You could even hear the wind blow.  Normally, there's the background noise of the engine, but you ignore that after a while, you know?"  said Toby. 

            Mo nodded. 

            Kim continued. "That was about when we saw . . ." she stopped.

            Mo leaned forward on his arms.  "Saw what?" he asked.

            Toby and Kim looked at each other briefly.  "Nothing, just a couple of coyotes coming from that direction," she said, hesitantly.

            Mo could tell they were holding something back.  In his report later, he stated that Toby and Kim exhibited symptoms of nervousness, trembling hands, and stuttering.  Some of that could be attributed to what they saw when they arrived at the engine. Seeing Director Lopez there, horribly burned, the cab scorched, and the front end crumpled like aluminum foil made his own stomach turn.  He remembered their anguished cries for help over the radio, and wished that he didn't have to subject them to this grilling.  It was his job, though.

            "Well, I guess you know what's next." said Mo.

            "Ahh, Mo, we weren't involved in the accident.  Do we have to take a drug screen?" asked Kim.  She didn't smoke pot often, but she was at a party recently, and took a toke.  She was scared.  She could lose her job, her pension, everything she owned, if the screen came back positive.

            "Sorry, Kim, Toby, you know the rules.  The DOT is insistent that even observers have to take a urine screen when it involves a fatality.  Might as well get it over with.  The results normally would be back from the lab tomorrow, but the last batch I sent in got delayed for almost a week.  Since neither of you are on rotation for equipment operation, you can go back to work right afterward," Mo stated, handing each of them a plastic cup.  "Kim, since there aren't any other females on shift tonight, I'll stand just inside the bathroom door to give you _some_ privacy."

            "Gee, thanks." Kim replied sarcastically.  "I'm touched."

            After the samples were sealed and labeled, Mo put them in the package to send to the lab and started to fill out the paperwork that would accompany the report to his superiors.  _Stupid procedure,_ he thought, _but I could get written up if I don't do it, and I don't need the hassle with everything else going on._

            People slowly started to drift over from the Warehouse and Operations as the ambulance arrived.  Everybody had heard the tortured voices of the first people on the scene over the radio, and didn't really want to see.  But, as always, morbid curiosity took over, and the site ground to a halt as people left their desks to come over the pay silent tribute to one of their own.  They would see to it that the flags were flown at half mast tomorrow, even if it wasn't entirely proper.  Their leader, their friend, Project Director Roberto Manuel Lopez, deserved that much.

 

 

 

### Chapter 5

 

#### East of Pueblo, Colorado 

March 25 - 4:00 p.m.

 

             Mulder took off his sunglasses as he bent over to look eye to  eye with the bull.  Only a four-strand barbed wire fence separated them.  The bull had found Mulder interesting.  It had trotted up to the fence, and was now snorting the air close to him.  It backed away suddenly, shaking its head.  Its horns, as long as a man's arm, sliced the air.

            "I don't think he likes your cologne, Agent Mulder.", laughed Mitchell Davies.

            "That's okay, I don't like his, either." responded Mulder, chuckling.  He had never seen a longhorn bull at close range before.  "I feel like I'm trapped in an episode of 'Rawhide'", said Mulder, laughing now, as well.

            "How so?" asked Mitchell leaning back on the government service vehicle, arms crossed.

            "Well, first I see buffalo roaming at the airport in Denver, and now a herd of longhorn cattle grazing on the prairie.  I'm waiting for a rattlesnake to spook the truck." he joked.

            "Ha!  Well, as mean as the snakes are out here, it wouldn't  surprise me.  But I think that the snake will come out the loser in that contest."  responded Mitchell.  "Well, you about ready, Agent Mulder?" he asked, putting his sunglasses back on.

            "Drop the Agent, and just call me Mulder." he said.

            "Well, just call me Mitch, then.  Come on, we'd better get moving.  We'll be lucky to get to the Track before everybody leaves as it is."

            They got back in the truck, and drove the remaining miles to the Test Center.  Scully was on her way to the hospital to meet with the County Coroner and perform an autopsy on the body of the engineer.  Mitchell Davies had met them at the hotel after they checked in, and offered to drive Mulder to the site, leaving the rental car for Scully. 

            Mulder had initially found the landscape boring and somewhat depressing.  As they drove, however, he became aware that the landscape was teeming with life.  He looked forward to turning each new corner.  Already, in the first few miles, he had seen the cattle, and a lone mule deer buck, grazing on sagebrush.

            "Out of curiosity, do longhorn cattle have any market value?" asked Mulder.  "They're big, but they don't look like they have much meat."

            "Well, to be honest, I'm not a cattle man.  I know that they're extremely resistant to weather and drought conditions.  That's why they became popular in the West in the first place.  I don't really know about the marketability of them, but the owners seem to like them." he concluded.

            "Tell me, Mitch, what exactly is it you do out here?" asked Mulder after a few minutes.

            "Well, quite a few things, actually.  The main business of the Test Track--most people call it either the Test Track or the TTC, by the way.  'The U.S. Department of Transportation Technology Center and Facility for Accelerated Service Testing' just doesn't really roll off the tongue." he said. 

            Mulder chuckled. 

            "We mostly test railroad components and experimental vehicles, such as electric passenger cars.  The F.A.S.T. Track is a 4.86 mile closed loop of track, sort of like a large-scale train set.  The FAST Track is composed of sections of experimental railroad components.  One section may have rail with a high chromium content with wood ties and standard ballast.  Another section may have standard composition rail, but have concrete ties or oil shale ballast, etc.  The purpose is to give the railroad companies a way to load test specific components to determine whether they will stand up to years of actual service." Mitch explained.

            "Why don't they just tear up a section of track and test it on real lines?" asked Mulder.

            "That's what they did for many years.  The problem with testing, say...concrete ties, that way, is that on a standard rail line, the test section of track may only be used twice a day.  It would take up to ten _years_ to find out whether the ties will hold up."

            "Uh, Mitch," interrupted Mulder, bracing his palm against the roof of the truck, his teeth gritted to prevent him from biting his own tongue, "Don't these Government trucks come equipped with shocks?"

            "Sorry for the ride, Mulder, but it's not the truck, it's the road.  Lots of bentonite in the soil out here.  They can't keep the road smooth.  Don't worry, though, it'll get worse before it gets better," Mitch replied, laughing.

            The truck leaned into a corner, as the right side, where Mulder sat, dropped into a particularly nasty dip.  "I'm somehow not comforted by that," said Mulder, tightening his seatbelt another notch.

            "Anyway, as I was saying, if the components do hold up after the testing, they wasted ten years that they could have had the ties in service.  If they don't work, then they have to tear up that section of track again, reroute all the traffic while they do the construction, and replace them again with wood ties.  It's very inefficient.  The Test Track was designed for that very purpose.  Think about it. . . Facility for _Accelerated_ Service Testing.  The FAST train travels the loop 24 hours a day, seven days a week, every day of the year, stopping only for refueling, restaffing and maintenance.  The same results that would take ten years in the real world, only takes one year out here."  Mitchell went on.

            Mulder whistled softly.  "That's a pretty dramatic difference, all right.  Who orders these tests?"

            "Nearly everybody in the industry, at one time or another.  The Association of American Railroads manages the site.  Most all of the major railroad companies, through the AAR, will test new train components, and various vendor companies will test new materials before they try to market them to the industry.  A product is worthless if it doesn't stand up in real time.  Remember, many of the major railroad lines are only serviced every 10-20 years.  A company can go bankrupt in a hurry if their product only lasts five.  Plus, several major safety components have come from tests at the Track." said Mitch.

            "Such as?" queried Mulder.  They reached the top of a rise, and Mulder could see large brown and white buildings in the distance, rising from the prairie floor.  _We got here quicker than I thought,_ thought Mulder.  He was wrong.  The truck turned away from the view of the buildings, and headed further east.  The view was deceptive.  They would not arrive for many more bone-jarring miles.

            "Well, one of our big achievements was the double shelf coupler.  Are you familiar with train wrecks at all?" asked Mitch.

            "Not really, no.  Not more than I read in the newspapers." replied Mulder, wincing as his head slammed into the window.  Mulder couldn't imagine how this ride couldn't bother Mitch.  _He must be immune . . . or nuts_ , thought Mulder.

            "Well, in an actual collision, not just a derailment, mind you, the most serious damage to the train is from the couplers.  When a train stops suddenly, as in a collision, the cars, up to 60 of them, don't want to stop.  They buck and jerk and try to upend each other, looking for the space they need to stop.  Think of an accordion.  While the accordion is open, the membrane is straight, like a train."  "When you push one end towards the other,", he said, moving his hands together, briefly steering with his knee, "the membrane pleats."

            Mitch suddenly gripped the steering wheel and swerved to the right, narrowly avoiding hitting a large tortoise crossing the road.  A bright splotch of blue paint on the roadway testified that this must be a common route for the tortoise.  Other cars apparently had just missed hitting the slow, bulky reptile, as well.

            "The same holds true with railcars," Mitch went on,  "the accordion fold effect causes a great deal of stress at the coupling, as the cars try to fold together at the weakest point.  If the coupling breaks free at the top of the fold, the stress is relieved, but the coupling, being hard steel, will likely puncture the car in front or behind it.  It's not a big deal if the car in front is a coal car, but is extremely hazardous if it's a tanker of flammable gas."

            "So, how is the double-shelf coupler different?" Mulder asked.  Mitch had stopped the truck to allow a small herd of antelope to cross in front of them.  They smoothly bounded over the wire fence.  Mulder watched them in awe, counting three males and seven females.  He gratefully took the opportunity to readjust his seating and take a sip from his soda.  He was glad it had a lid and a straw.

            "Well, first of all, a shelf is a steel plate that is a barrier over the top of the coupling," said Mitch, shifting into drive again, as though stopping for antelope was a common occurrence.  "It prevents ice and snow build-up around the coupling, and prevents the coupling from bouncing and accidentally slipping free if the car hits a bump or dip in the rail.  The double-shelf coupler has a second steel plate, or shelf, above the regular shelf, made of high density steel that allows for a greater impact before it breaks apart.  The second shelf allows the railcars greater movement to expend energy, so that no secondary damage occurs." concluded Mitch.

            "Were the railcars attached to the train involved in the accident equipped with double-shelf couplers?" asked Mulder.

            "Yes, they were.  Most all of the cars at the Track have double-shelf couplers." said Mitch.

            As they rounded the last bend, Mulder could see the buildings again.  They crossed a bridge over a gully, and made the final turn into the Test Track.  A sign announced a welcome from the Department of Transportation and Association of American Railroads.

            "What evidence would exist that a collision occurred if you examined the couplers?" asked Mulder.

            The guard at the gate, recognizing the truck, lifted the gate and waved them through without slowing.  They traveled on, making a left turn at the next intersection, heading West to the FAST Track.

            "Well, in an accident such as this one, the first shelf of the coupler would probably be destroyed entirely.  The second shelf would have stress cracks and physical scratches into the steel.  Possibly, the second shelf might even be bent if the railcars raised high enough in the air.  There were only eight cars on the train, but they were fully loaded." said Mitch.

            "Were the couplers examined? And, if so, did they show the type of damage you described?" continued Mulder.

            "No, actually, the engine itself was pretty conclusive evidence to our investigators that an accident occurred.  The couplers on the cars weren't examined at all.  The cars have been moved, by the way, but the engine is still right where it was damaged.  We had to call in the big hook, and it has to come out of Denver." said Mitch.

            "The big hook?" Mulder asked.

            "The big hook is railroad terminology for a large crane, called a ringer, that will lift a severely damaged engine off the track, or out of a field in the case of a derailment.  The wheels will be removed, and the car will be loaded onto a specially reinforced tractor trailer." he explained.  "By the way," he continued, "I think the FBI guys out of Denver are out here again today, finishing up their investigation.  I understand that they called you in because they're stumped.  That right?" he asked.

            "Let's just say that I have a reputation for being called in when there's a question about the reality of a situation." Mulder said, smiling.

            Mitch looked at him quizzically, but said nothing.

                                                                         *  *  *

            Scully arrived at the hospital, after having contacted the coroner's office and learning that the coroner was the resident physician at the hospital that day.  She went to the information counter, and, pulling her badge from her pocket, said "Good morning, sir, my name is Special Agent Dana Scully of the FBI.  I'm here to see Dr. David Angeletti.  Could you tell me where I could find him?"

            The clerk at the information counter appeared startled.  He was probably a volunteer, about 68, with white hair and a mustache.  He apparently wasn't accustomed to FBI agents appearing and asking to speak to one of the doctors.  Scully thought it best to put the man at ease.  She put on her warmest smile, and said gently, "It's all right, I just need to get his opinion about a case we're working on."

            The clerk smiled and seemed relieved.  He said, "He's on duty in the Emergency Room today.  If you take the hallway to my left, and take the first left, you'll run right into it.  The nurse can page the Doctor for you.  I hope you find the answers you're looking for."

            "Thank you, sir.  I hope I do, too." Scully replied. 

            She followed the clerk's instructions and walked into the emergency room waiting area.  Several people sat in the pleasantly bright and airy room, either waiting to be treated or hoping for word on an injured loved one.  She went up to the admission counter and repeated who she was to the nurse on duty.  The nurse asked to inspect her badge, and looked at it more carefully than most people did.  She didn't appear concerned that an FBI agent was asking for the doctor, but wanted to make sure that Scully really was FBI before she gave out the information.  The nurse also asked to see her driver's license.  Scully approved.  Most people didn't take the time to be sure of who they were talking to.  Too many people gave valuable and, occasionally, dangerous, information to anybody that flashed the semblance of a badge.  When the nurse was satisfied that Scully was who she claimed to be, she paged the doctor.  Scully sat down in one of the chairs, and pulled out her file, familiarizing herself with the coroner's report.

            A handsome man in his early 60's, wearing a white lab coat, came down the hall and stopped at the nurse's station.  He spoke to the nurse briefly, who pointed to Scully.  The man strode over to where Scully was seated, and, offering his hand, said "Agent Scully?  I'm Dr. Angeletti, the County Coroner.  How can I help you?"

            "I was hoping you had several minutes to speak with me regarding your report on the death of the Project Director at the DOT site, Roberto Lopez." Scully said.

            "Well, I can spare a few minutes, but it's Friday night and it's nearly dark.  The place will probably start hopping soon.  Let's grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria." he said, smiling.

            They walked toward the stairs, the Doctor's long strides forcing Scully to double step to keep up.  "What do you hope to find by examining the body again?" asked the Doctor.

            "Well . . . " began Scully, feeling uncomfortable.

            "Agent Scully, you don't need to be concerned about stepping on my toes." said the Doctor, as they walked down the stairs to the cafeteria.  "I had thought that I did a thorough investigation into the cause of death, but came up with nothing.  Obviously, I missed something.  Nobody dies for no reason.  I'm not offended that they've sent someone to follow up.  I wish I had the time in my schedule to investigate the case more thoroughly myself.  I'll be happy to answer any questions I can in the time that I have." he said.

            Scully felt relieved.  In investigations of this sort, it was quite common for the local coroner or doctor to feel threatened by her presence, seeing her as an unwanted intruder, especially due to her age, and occasionally, because she was a woman.

            They poured cups of coffee for themselves, his black, her's with cream, no sugar.  "I presume that you have a background in forensics if they've sent you, Agent Scully,", he said with a smile, "or did you just wake up this morning and say 'Hey! I think I'll do an autopsy today'?"

            "My residency was in forensic pathology," she replied with a chuckle.  "Hey, dead people are my life.  And call me Dana."  She was beginning to like Dr. Angeletti.

            The Doctor laughed easily.  "I know what you mean.  We're a strange breed, we coroners.  I became a coroner because I always wanted to know 'why', but, too often, you start to forget 'who'.  You lose all emotion for life.  So, I started to do double duty as an on-call doctor in the emergency room.  It helps keep me grounded."  said the Doctor, "And I'll only call you Dana if you call me David." he said.

            "Okay, David" she said, "Since we're short on time, I've read your report, and it seems that you checked everything that I would have.  Your report indicated that the subject was in good health generally, although slightly overweight.  There was no evidence of myocardial infarction, but his heart stopped prior to the collision.  He had second degree burns over ninety percent of his body, but there was no evidence of smoke present in his lungs.  Did you check for carbon monoxide in his blood?" she asked.

            "Yes, we did.  There was none present.  I'm surprised that the lab work wasn't in your file.  We did a standard intoxicant screen of the urine and blood as a matter of course.  There was no alcohol present and, because of the nature of his death, I ran a screen for a variety of drugs, including narcotic and poisonous.  None were found.  The body was in a condition such that I could not determine the presence of any needle marks.  But there was a high level of adrenaline found in the blood, so whatever happened to him, he saw it coming.  I also took tissue samples, all of which came back normal.  I'll let you look over my file, just in case other things are missing from yours.  You probably didn't get copies of the long bone x-rays either,"  he said, looking at his watch.  "I'd better get going.  They'll be looking for me soon, if they aren't already.  I can arrange for a autopsy room and scrubs, if you like." he said.

            Scully nodded.  "I'd appreciate that.  Oh, before I forget, did you draw any tissue or fluid from the spine?"

            "Actually, no, I didn't.  It didn't seem necessary, but you're welcome to.  I'll have the lab people at your disposal while you're here.  I'll be on shift in ER until about midnight, if you need anything.  If you want a break around eight o'clock, we can have dinner, and go over what you've found." he said, standing up.  "Check with the morgue, and they'll set you up with a room.  I'll call ahead."

            "I'm not sure how long I'll be," said Scully, standing up also, and picking up her case.  "If I'm still here around eight, I'll probably need dinner, so I accept gratefully." she said, grinning.  "You buying?"

            "On a coroner's salary?  You're joking." he said with a snort.  "Oh, well, maybe I'll make an exception in your case.  Good luck."

            Scully watched him stride out, and was sorry that he wasn't 20 years younger.  He would make an interesting person to spend time with.  Not that she had time to spend with anyone; she spent most of her time with Mulder.

                                                                         *  *  *

            The setting sun shone brightly through the windshield, nearly blinding them, even with sunglasses.  They had arrived at the FAST Track, and Mulder was getting his first glimpse of the accident scene.  As Mitch had stated, the damaged engine was on the track, surrounded by people.  About 40 feet to the left of the track, workers were constructing a large wooden platform on the sand.

            "What are those men doing?" asked Mulder.

            "They're from the crane company out of Denver.  They're constructing a platform for the crane to sit on." replied Mitch.

            "Why?" asked Mulder.

            "Because of the sandy soil and burrowing animals that live out here, the ringer crane won't be able to get a solid footing once it has the engine on the load line and it could tip over.  Even though there are no obstructions between the crane and the engine, because of the weight of the load, the crane must have a stable base.  So, the company builds a solid platform of timbers big enough for the ringer and the outriggers to sit on." Mitch replied.

            They stopped the truck and got out.  Mulder saw men in suits like his climbing in and around the engine, one of which he recognized.

            "Steve!" Mulder yelled over the hammering, cupping his mouth.  He raised his hand and waived, smiling, as he walked closer.

            "Hey!  Mulder!" shouted a sandy-haired man with a beard and mustache.  "About time you got here!  What happened, you get lost without a subway to guide you?" Steve Forman joked, climbing down off the engine and walking toward Mulder, hand outstretched.

            "You mean there's no subway?" Mulder replied, looking confused.  "How did I get here then?"  

            They both laughed.  They shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulder.

            "How you doin', man?" asked Steve.

            "Not bad.  Thanks for the invite.  I haven't been skiing in ages." said Mulder, grinning.

            Steve snorted.  "You assume that you'll have time to ski.  I called you in for a reason, you know.  This one is weird, Mulder.  We've spent way more time than we planned to on this case, and still have nothing."

            "Well then, why don't you bring me up to date and let's get started." said Mulder.

            "Okay, as you can see, the front end of the engine is, literally, gone." said Steve, and they walked around the engine.

            Steve was right, the engine looked as though it had crashed into a brick wall, the hardened steel flattened and crumpled like a wadded piece of paper.  They climbed into the engine cab from the back, since the front stairway was destroyed, and Mulder looked around. 

            The engine had an oppressive feel.  The interior of the cab was scorched, as though a raging fire had occurred, but briefly.  Mulder had a strong fear of fire.  He couldn't imagine any worse way to die.  He got an sudden chill down his spine as he took in the scene.  Most of the instruments had broken free from the console during the collision.  The glass in the windshield and windows was blackened and cracked.  The edges of the leather engineer's chair was dried and split, but the seat appeared to be undamaged.  _The engineer must have been sitting down when the fire occurred_ , thought Mulder. 

            "Has any of the lab work come back yet?" he asked Steve.  He could tell where samples of materials had been taken by Steve's team.

            "Not yet, but we're expecting it any time.  They're supposed to call as soon as the results are back.  That's what we're waiting around for.  If any of the samples are bad, we can get new ones before they remove the engine in the morning." said Steve.

            "Have you found anything that would explain the fire?" asked Mulder, still poking around in the cab.  "I saw your report, that no nitrates were found.  Is there evidence of an electrical fire?"

            "Nothing, I'm afraid.  We've been through the access panel in here, and can't find any evidence that there was a fire inside the engine.  The blast, or whatever it was, seems to be centered here.  We can't find any evidence of an accelerant, nor any location where the fire originated.  It seems to have started all over at the same time." answered Steve.  He couldn't imagine any more horrible way to die.

            "Could there have been an outside source of the fire, such as a flame thrower?" asked Mulder.

            "Not that we can determine.  We thought of that too, but there would be some hydrocarbon residue around one of the windows or doors, if that was the case." replied Steve.   

            Mulder nodded.  "So, are you saying that the fire is independent of the damage to the front end?" he asked.

            "It's not what I want to say, Mulder, but I have no choice but to say it.  We can't find any connection between the two." said Steve, looking chagrined.

            "What about evidence of whatever the engine hit?" said Mulder.

            "Nothing," said Steve.  "There should be some evidence of some other material not from the engine around the scene, but there's not.  Nor would there have been time for somebody to remove all the evidence, since there were eye witnesses."

            "What about the eye witnesses?  The information they gave in the initial interview was pretty sketchy.  Have you gotten any more out of them?" asked Mulder.

            "They're holding back something, but I don't know what.  We've interviewed them both together and separately.  I believe they're being honest in what they're telling us, but I don't think they're telling us everything.  I was kind of hoping that you would have a go at them, since you're the psych specialist." said Steve.

            "Psych, or psycho?" laughed Mulder.

            "Either or both, depending on whether we're talking about you or the rest of the world." Steve replied, teasingly.

            Just then, another man with a cellular phone walked up to Steve.

            "Steve, the lab boys are on the phone.  They've got something weird, and want a second sample.  Here, you talk with them." he said, handing Steve the phone through the window of the cab.

            "Thanks, Jeff.  This is Steve, what've you got?" he said into the phone.  He listened for a time, frowning slightly.  "Well, I guess we can get another sample.  What was the sample number?" he asked.  "Jeff," he said, turning to the other agent, "cross-check samples C-24 and C-30.  Where were those taken?" Steve asked.  Jeff checked a pocket notebook.  "C-24 was in the cab, in the canvas headliner.  C-30 was the leather seat, in the unscorched section." replied Jeff.

            "Well, go get another sample ready and have Jerry run it up to Colorado Springs." ordered Steve.  He thanked the man on the phone and shut it off, handing the phone back to Jeff.

            "Well, what was that all about?" asked Mulder, climbing down out of the cab.

            "The lab results came back, but two of the samples must have been contaminated, so we're getting new samples to take up to the lab." replied Steve.

            "Why do you assume the samples were bad?  What did the lab find?" asked Mulder.

            "In two of the samples, both taken from organic material, the lab found evidence of an unknown protein, and traces of platinum." said Steve, sounding puzzled.  "They must have been contaminated." he said.

            "An unknown protein?" asked Mulder.  "What kind of protein is there that isn't known?"

            "Good question, and right in your area of expertise." said Steve.  "What kind of proteins aren't known that you're aware of?"

            "And platinum?!?" continued Mulder, mostly to himself.  He looked up.  "Did any of your agents have a ring or other jewelry that is made of platinum?  Did the lab give you a percentage in the sample?" he asked.

            "No, he didn't give me a percentage, and as for jewelry, I'll have to check around.  Not everybody that was there that day is here now."  "I'll have to get back to you on that."

            Mulder had reached into his pocket and taken out his cellular phone.  He dialed a number he knew by heart, and waited for an answer.

                                                                         *  *  *

            Scully had donned green hospital scrubs, gloves, and eye goggles.  She was thankful that the hospital used the type of gloves without powder inside.  The powdered type were easier to get on and off, but were murder on her hands, since the powder removed all the essential oils from her skin.

            She had asked for, and received, an autopsy room that rivaled her own in Washington.  She felt herself blush furiously as she realized that she was surprised the equipment was modern.  She supposed that she had a common Easterner prejudice of the Western states.  Of course the equipment was modern, she told herself crossly.  What had she expected, leather doctor's bags and leeches like on the television show about the woman doctor in the frontier?  She would have to work on her attitude.

            The autopsy room included recording equipment.  She usually taped autopsies as she performed them, so she could replay the tapes while writing her report.  The morgue attendants had brought in the body of Director Lopez and had placed it on the table.  Scully checked over the tray of instruments to make sure everything was in place before she began.  She had performed many autopsies before, having taught forensic medicine briefly at the FBI Academy in Quantico.  She reached overhead and turned on the microphone as she folded back the white sheet from the body.

            While she was not startled at the state of the body, it always took a moment to clinically detach herself.  As a forensic investigator, the condition of burn victims always mildly annoyed her.  So much evidence that could be uncovered was destroyed when the epidural layer of skin was marred.

            "Subject is a Hispanic male, age 47." she began.  "The internal organs have been previously removed and weighed.  I have confirmed the weights and general appearance of the organs."  She stopped, trying to put her observations into coherent thought.  A single stray hair hung down the side of her face, and she pushed it out of her line of sight.  The remainder of her shoulder length auburn hair was held securely in a barrette at the base of her neck.  "The body has second degree burns over the majority of exposed skin, with some localized areas of third degree burns." Scully noted that putrefaction, sometimes known as fourth degree, or post-mortem burns, had not occurred.  Apparently, the fire didn't last very long.  "Note:  Check with Mulder to see if the witnesses extinguished the fire." Scully frequently left notes to herself on the autopsy tapes, to verify information at a later time.  She continued, "The burns do not appear to be electrical in nature."  She stopped again, and inspected the body for signs of lightning or other high voltage electricity exit wounds, finding nothing. "No exit wound is apparent.  Death by electrocution may most likely be eliminated."

            She looked over at the X-rays, hung on the light table.  Metal fragments appeared in the face and chest.  David's report indicated that no lead was found in the fragments.  She could cross off bullet fragmentation, and probably suicide.  "The lungs . . ." she stopped, as her cellular phone began to ring in the background.  She sighed, turned off the microphone, and removed her gloves.  She retrieved her phone from her bag at the other end of the room, and, opening the phone and extending the antenna, said "Scully."

            "Hi, it's me," said Mulder.  "Have you had the chance to look at the body yet?" he asked.

            "I'm in the middle of the autopsy now.  What's up?" she replied.

            "I'm out at the site, and the lab reports came in that indicated some abnormalities.  Steve thinks the samples were contaminated somehow, but I'm not so sure.  I want you to check for two things while you're doing the autopsy." said Mulder.

            "Okay, what?" she asked.

            "First, were any of his clothes salvageable?" asked Mulder.

            "I don't know, the body didn't have any when I first saw it.  I'll check with the coroner.  I assume they would keep them with the other remains, if they weren't destroyed by the fire." Scully replied.  "What am I looking for?"

            "First, you're looking for any evidence of an unknown protein.  The lab can't identify a protein they've found, and second, look for traces of platinum in the clothing fibers." said Mulder.

            "Wait, wait.  An unknown protein?" asked Scully.  "How do you define that?"

            "I define it the same way you do, Scully.  A protein that is not currently on our list of known proteins.  I don't know what you're looking for." said Mulder, sounding preoccupied.  "But the one I want you to keep your eye out for is the platinum.  I don't know why, but I think it's very important."

            "Platinum . . . in the fibers of the clothing.  Sure, why not.  Anything else?  Should I look for rubies in his belly button, too?" she asked sarcastically.

            "No, just the platinum." said Mulder, ignoring the sarcasm.  "We're just about out of daylight here, so I'll be heading in soon.  I'll probably stop for dinner with Steve.  Check in with me at the motel when you get back, and we'll talk."

            "Okay, bye." said Scully, shaking her head as she turned off the phone.  _Platinum_ , she thought, _Only Mulder would ask something like that_.

            She grabbed another pair of gloves and turned the microphone back on.  She rewound the tape to her last statement.  She continued, "The lungs show evidence of petechia hemorrhages.  Asphyxiation by an unknown source must be considered."  She completed the remainder of the autopsy, confirming the observations of Dr. Angeletti.  She took separate tissue samples, and, additionally, tapped a sample of spinal fluid and tissue.   She found no supporting evidence of asphyxiation in marks on the body.  In short, she was as stumped as David had been, as least until the lab results came back.  She turned off the microphone and removed her gloves.  She then removed the tape from the recorder and tucked it into her bag.  As she exited the room, she stopped at the morgue attendant's desk and indicated that she was done, so they could clean up the room and return the body to storage.

 

            She dropped the samples off at the lab.  The hospital didn't have a mass spectroscope or a gas chromatograph, and would have to send the spinal samples to Colorado Springs for analysis.  Her timing was impeccable, however, because the courier from the Colorado Springs lab had just arrived. She would have the results in the morning.  She walked upstairs to the emergency room.  It was about 7:45 p.m., and she thought she would take David up on his offer.  He was pleased to comply, indicating he could leave a little early since not much was going on, and they went to the cafeteria together.

            The cafeteria was serving oriental food that day, and the Kung Pao Chicken smelled wonderful to Scully.  David took Sweet and Sour Pork, and, after he signed for the ticket at the register, they sat down.

            "So, " began David, amused. "What did I miss, Madam Doctor?"

            "Not a damn thing." replied Scully, taking her first mouthful of dinner.  She savored the flavor as it lightly burned her tongue.  _The cooks here are quite good_ , she thought.  "All I was able to do was confirm what didn't cause his death.  I did take some additional samples and took them down to the lab for tests.  About all I know so far is that he died."

            They ate in silence for a time. 

            "Do you think you'll be needing the body any longer?" asked David.  "The family is understandably anxious to have the funeral so they can get on with their lives."

            "I understand," said Scully.  "As soon as the lab results come back in the morning, I should be finished."  "Oh, by the way, did any of the subject's clothing survive the fire?  My partner found something at the site, and asked me to check for something in the clothing fibers."  She didn't say what she was looking for, since she was sure that David would either laugh or consider her peculiar.

            "Fragments of the clothing survived, mostly in the seat of his pants, and the back of his shirt.  He was seated at the time of the accident, and his body absorbed the heat." said David.  "They're with his personal effects down in the morgue, if you want to see them.  I can't imagine why, though."

            "Frankly, neither can I." she said, resignedly.

                                                                         *  *  *

            Mulder and Steve slid into the booth at the Mexican restaurant.  Mulder was in the mood for something spicy, and Steve had recommended this particular restaurant.  It was a little hole-in-the-wall where locals hung out.  Mulder noticed that the majority of the clientele was Hispanic, speaking Spanish.  The quality of food looked promising.  They both ordered Mexican beer, and while waiting for the waitress to return, Mulder asked, "So, how are Ginny and the kids?"

            "Great, just great.  Ginny is working for the State now, in the welfare office.  She likes the contact with people.  Mark is eight, and growing like a weed.  He's going to be taller than me in a year or two.  Tammy is six, and Stephanie is about to turn five." said Steve. 

            Mulder shook his head, amazed.  "It seems hard to believe that it's been that long since we've seen each other."

            "Hey," remarked Steve, "I hear you got assigned a partner.  How do you like him?  I know you've never been fond of working with someone."

            "Her," corrected Mulder.  "Dana Scully, doctor and scientist extraordinaire.  Actually, Steve, I've come to trust Scully a great deal." he said quietly, almost to himself. "She doesn't believe yet, but is starting to come around on some points.  We play well off each other."  He was quiet for a moment, reflecting on their ups and downs as partners, and realizing how important her support had come to mean to him.

            Steve nodded, understanding.  "A partner can be a valuable asset, once you start to anticipate each other's moods and signals.  And, speaking of believing, I've got a little additional information for you, Spooky, relating to your specialty."

            "Such as?" asked Mulder, smiling at the nickname for the first time in quite a while.

            "Well, I did a little checking for you.  I didn't want the other guys to know, because they would think I was nuts.  I lived with you long enough to know that you would go checking for yourself anyway, and I already had the contacts.  So, here goes:  Engine No. 6 was originally a Burlington Northern rig purchased by the Government as salvage.  Neither it, nor any of the other cars on the train, has ever been involved in an accident before where anyone was killed." he said, looking a little embarrassed.  "As far as I can determine from quiet inquiries with present and past employees, there has never been any sort of unexplained or psychic phenomenon associated with the site or any of the equipment.  The site has no past history as burial or sacred ground for any of the local Indian tribes, and, in short, the area seems to have no paranormal aura surrounding it at all."  He looked relieved to have finished with his report.

            Mulder appreciated the effort Steve took to locate the information and say it out loud.  Mulder knew that Steve did not believe fully in the paranormal.  It was a testament to their friendship that he would think of it at all.  Steve was right, Mulder was going to check it out anyway.  There was too much of a history of unexplained phenomenon following mechanical equipment that had been involved in fatal accidents to ignore the possibility.  "Thanks, Steve," he said quietly.  "I appreciate the effort.  You saved me some time.  I can concentrate on other things now.  But, don't forget," he added with a sparkle in his eye, "for every site that has record of paranormal phenomenon connected with it, there was a first time."

            Steve chuckled softly, shaking his head.  Mulder would never change, and he was glad.  The human race was better off because of it.

                                                                         *  *  *

            Scully had finished dinner and had returned to the morgue to check the clothing samples.  What was left of the shirt and pants consisted of the areas on the back, where they were shielded from the fire.  She took samples from the blackened edges of both articles of clothing, as well as from the shielded area where the material was still intact.  She took them down to the lab, where the attendant told her that the samples would go to Colorado Springs in the morning run.  The results would probably not be available until late afternoon, or the following day.

            She looked at her watch.  It was getting late.  She pulled her phone from her bag, and dialed Mulder's number.

            "Mulder." came the reply, hoarsely.  He had just swallowed a bite of chili rellano that was especially hot, and couldn't breathe for a moment.

            "Scully.  Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.

            "Yeah, I'm fine.  I was just trying to swallow something.  Steve and I are having dinner.  What's up?" he replied.

            "I took the samples from the clothing that you wanted, and I'm beat.  Unless you can think of anything else, I'm going to head back to the motel, take a hot shower, and go to bed." she said.  Her muscles always ached after an autopsy.  A hot shower was just what she needed.

            "No, Steve and I are just finishing dinner, and I'll probably head back to the motel myself in a bit.  I'll get you up, say, around 7:00 a.m., and we'll go back out to the site.  We have witnesses to interview." he remarked. "Oh, and Scully," he said.

            "Yes?" she replied.

            "Don't use up all the hot water." he said, smiling.

            "Done, partner." she said, smiling as well.  "See you in the morning."

                                                                             

 

 

###  Chapter 6

 

 

#### U.S. Army Chemical Disposal Project 

 (formerly Pueblo Army Depot)

Pueblo, Colorado

March 25 - 9:25 p.m.

 

            The five camouflaged soft-side trucks rolled through the gate.  Three men in each truck got out when the trucks stopped near the loading platform.  They were dressed in black, not standard green fatigues, and they moved with the grace and speed of people trained for night missions such as this.  One of the men, dressed in the same manner, was clearly the leader of the group.  He began to speak softly to the men, pointing and gesturing when necessary.  The men stood at attention as instructions were given to them, and when the leader had finished, they silently and swiftly went to their task.

            The canvas flap on the back of each truck was lifted, revealing pallets loaded with black plastic barrels, smaller than standard size steel drums.  The barrels looked new.  One of the men started a small forklift and moved it close to the first truck.  Methodically, one by one, the pallets were transferred to the loading bay.  One of the men produced a key, and the bay door was opened, revealing row after row of similar barrels.

            The men got to work.  Two men removed a barrel from the pallet and placed it in line in the row of barrels.  The rest of the men took up the task.  Again and again they did this, starting and completing new rows of barrels, until they were all in place in the warehouse.  The pallets were stacked outside with other similar pallets, and the men got back in their trucks, just as quickly and silently.

            The leader, who had been standing in the shadows supervising the transfer, stepped out into the light briefly as he made his way to his own truck.  He was an African-American in his late 40's, with a beard and mustache, just beginning to grey.  He moved with the quiet authority of one who had supervised actions such as these many times before.  One of the men came up to him, reporting that the transfer had gone smoothly, and they were ready to leave.

            "How many more shipments are there?" the man asked his leader, the trucks quietly running in the background.

            "About five more.  We should be done in the next day or two.  We'll have them all in place before the first burn," replied the leader.  The leader felt edgy, but didn't know why.  It was almost as if he could feel something or someone nearby waiting for him to make a mistake.  He shook off the feeling.  They were almost done, and he could go home soon.  He stepped into the shadows again, and was gone.

            Overhead, the stars twinkled brightly in the clear prairie night.  Three of the stars twinkled a bit more brightly than the others, seeming closer, with a faint blue tinge.

                                                                             

 

 

### Chapter 7

 

 

#### U.S. Department of Transportation Technology Center 

Pueblo, Colorado

March 26 - 8:25 a.m.

 

            Mulder and Scully sat in Mo Baker's office at the FAST Track.  Scully had just arrived, having taken time to view the accident scene.  She had found no more information than anyone else. 

            She had decided to stay and watch as the huge ringer crane removed the engine from the track.  The crane and its outriggers completely filled the massive, 70 foot wide platform of timbers.  Three booms extended from the cab, in which the operator seemed dwarfed.  Cables ran from the first boom, straight upright from the cab, to the second boom, which was extended slightly farther, and at a 45 degree angle to the first.  The cables traveled beyond the second boom to the third boom, extended far out over the engine at about a 60 degree angle.  The drop line of thick steel cable from the third boom had been attached to a large steel ring, which, in turn, was attached to two more cables.  The lines were attached to hooks on the top of the engine structure, and, as she observed, the multi-ton engine slowly raised up off the track.  She watched in fascination as the wheels were removed and the crane, huffing noisily, began to turn on a large circular track, taking the suspended engine with it.  She marveled at the talent of the crane operator, who seemed to sense everything at once, adjusting the load as the wind rose across the prairie, holding it steady.  As the engine neared the multi-axle, heavy-duty trailer, the crane lifted it into the air further, and gently set it down on the trailer, with no more than a whisper of steel meeting steel.  She realized that she had been holding her breath, and exhaled.  She left the workers to secure the engine on the trailer, and now sat at Mulder's side as he interviewed the witnesses.

            "You both indicated that you didn't observe a fire or a collision, is that right?" he asked.

            "Yes, that's right." said Toby.  Kim nodded.

            "Was the train moving at all when you first arrived to take the measurements?" queried Mulder.

            "Oh, yes, when we first arrived, the train was just passing by us.  Bob sounded the whistle . . . just for fun, I think.  We both jumped, but I don't think he intended to scare us.  We were walking in the shadows.  I don't think he saw us there." said Kim.

            Scully asked, "Did you notice any odd sounds at the time the engine passed?  Did the engine sound like it was running properly?"

            They looked at each other.  "I think it sounded okay." said Kim.  Toby added, "At least I didn't hear anything that sounded wrong."

            "Why did you look toward the train at the time you noticed it not moving?  What prompted you to both look up at that moment?" asked Mulder.

            They both looked decidedly uncomfortable.  Mulder knew he had touched on a sore spot.

            "We've thought about that." said Toby.  "We both think it was an unconscious reaction to the sound of the engine stopping." 

            "We didn't remember at first that it got quiet all of a sudden." added Kim.

            Mulder and Scully looked at each other.  Scully knew from Mulder's expression that he wanted a few minutes alone with the witnesses.

            "Steve," she said.  "Could I borrow you for a minute?  I want to check on something, and I think I'll need your help."  She gave him a look that said ' _we need to leave him alone_ '.

            "Sure, Dana, no problem." he said, standing up, catching the expression.  "We'll be right back, Mulder."

            The two left the office, leaving Mulder, Toby and Kim alone.  Mulder stood up, shut the door, locked it, and pointedly turned off the tape recorder.  Toby and Kim looked at each other nervously.

            He sat back down, leaning forward on his forearms in a conspiring manner, his hands clasped in front of him. "Okay, guys.  It's just you and me now." he said.  The witnesses straightened their backs, looking defensive.  "I believe you're holding back information.  That information could be very important to finding out why Bob Lopez is dead.  I also believe that you don't want to reveal the information--not because you're trying to hide anything --but because you are afraid that saying it will make people think you're crazy."

            Their eyes grew wide.

            "I don't think you're crazy.  I think you saw something out there that was out of the ordinary.  I need to know what it is.  Nothing will go out of this room.  I promise." he said.

            They looked at each other, and then at him.  He looked calm, trusting . . . believing.  They made their decision.

            Kim started first.  "I really think that you will believe us.  But nobody else will, trust me."  Her eyes glazed over, remembering.  "The story is the same as we told you up to a point.  Until the train made the corner at the 2 mile mark."

            Toby picked up.  "We were taking the measurements, like we said, when all of a sudden it got real hazy out, like a fog bank or something."

            Their words spilled out fast, one over the other, as they struggled to get the story out.  Mulder sat quietly, taking it all in.

            "Then we saw Blue Lights." said Kim, in awe.

            "They've never been out here before." added Toby.  "It was weird, really strange.  The engine was running smoothly, but when the haze and Blue Lights showed up, everything stopped dead.  No sound, no lights, nothing."

            "Really, we didn't see a fire, or hear a crash.  Honest.  Just stillness. . .quiet.  No animals, no wind, no sound of any kind.  Like we were outside of time, or something." Kim stated.  "God, you must think we're nuts!" she exclaimed.

            "No.  I don't." replied Mulder.  He knew that he had heard the most important part of the interview to date.  He had heard the truth.  And he wished he had gotten it on tape.  However, occasionally, a photographic memory was handy.  "I believe you.  Did anything else happen in between?" he asked.

            "No, that's it.  Just 'everything's okay. . . haze. . . Blue Lights, and then . . . you know.'" said Toby, grimacing.

            "Okay, then, I guess that's it.  We probably won't be needing anything more from you.  This won't go in the official report, but I appreciate your telling me.  I understand that your drug screens came back negative, in case you hadn't heard." said Mulder.  Kim closed her eyes and sighed.  She felt slightly giddy.  Mulder stood up and shook each person's hand.  "Good luck.  It's not easy being witness to a situation involving the paranormal." he said.  "You may want to talk with a counselor about your feelings.  They can get trapped inside of you and make life difficult.  I know." he said. 

            They nodded, believing him.

                                                                         *  *  *

            Mulder sat quietly in the room for a few minutes after Toby and Kim left.  He thought about their statement.  They had used 'blue lights' as a proper noun, rather than 'blue' as an adjective to describe 'lights'.  They didn't appear to find the sighting of Blue Lights odd in itself, merely that it appeared where it did.  They seemed more awe-struck than frightened that they had seen it.  He needed to find out more about Blue Lights, and he knew just where to go.

            As he exited the foreman's office, Scully was on the phone, talking excitedly.  She hung up just as he reached the desk where she was sitting.

            "What's up?" he asked her.

            "The lab results came back on the samples I took from the engineer." she said, excited.

            "About the platinum?" he asked, equally excited.

            "The platinum . . ." she said, furrowing her brow.  "Oh, no, not those samples.  They won't be back until tomorrow some time.  The samples I mean are the ones that I took of spinal fluid and tissue.  I had them sent to a lab in the next city to run tests on a mass spectroscope.  I know what killed the engineer!" she exclaimed.

            "Really!?!" said Mulder, eyebrows raised.  "What?"

            "The test determined that a key enzyme, acetylcholinesterase, was totally absent from his spinal fluid.  This enzyme is one of the major neurotransmitters that relays information from the various nerves to the brain.  With that enzyme missing, the entire body shut down simultaneously.  That's why we couldn't find a single cause.  In effect, the body simply stopped.  And what's more important," she added, "is that the enzyme was apparently destroyed by absorption by your unknown protein."

            Mulder let out a low whistle.  "Are they sure of that?" he asked.

            "Apparently, when they found the enzyme missing, and the protein present, they decided to experiment a bit.  They took a normal sample, known as a blank, because they already know the exact ratio of the elements, and introduced the protein into the sample.  The protein absorbed the enzyme literally before their eyes.  All trace of the enzyme was gone within 30 seconds.  I doubt the engineer even knew what hit him." she said with a sigh.

            Mulder was thinking hard.  "My chemistry is rusty, but isn't that the same enzyme that is destroyed by nerve gas?" he asked.

            "Inhibited, not destroyed.  But also not absorbed as food, as in this case." said Scully.

            "Would a lower concentration of the same agent cause a milder reaction?" Mulder asked.

            "I have no way of knowing, but it seems logical." replied Scully.

            "I was just thinking.  Kim and Toby just told me that they were witness to what they believed to be an extraterrestrial encounter at the time of the collision.  They said they saw and were enveloped in a 'haze'.  In the statement that was taken at the time of the accident, the foreman indicated that they were both trembling, nervous, and sweating." he said.  "In today's meeting, they showed similar symptoms to a lesser degree.  I had attributed it to nervousness, but now I wonder.  Could they have been exposed to the same thing?" he asked.

            "If it were a nerve gas, and not a biological agent, those are the symptoms they would exhibit if exposed to a low concentration.  It's a reasonable question, but I have no way of finding out at this point.  If the protein didn't kill them, it would have metabolized and been ejected in the urine after about 24 hours.  I wouldn't be able to tell if I checked now." said Scully.

            "Urine . . ." began Mulder.  "Wait, that's it!  Kim and Toby both had to take a urine screen for drugs on the night of the collision.  Could the original sample still be checked for the missing enzyme?" he asked, excitedly.

            Scully's excitement grew along with Mulder's.  "Perhaps.  It couldn't hurt to check.  Most labs keep the remainder of the sample for a time, just to be sure that additional tests aren't needed, or in the case of a DUI, if the Defendant wants an independent test.  With any luck, the sample is at the same lab in Colorado Springs." she said, heading for the phone.  "Check with someone in operations, Mulder, and let me know."

            Mulder confirmed that the lab the Track used for drug tests was, indeed, the same one as the hospital used.  The lab agreed to pull the samples and test for the missing enzyme.  _The excitement is catching_ , thought Scully.  _The lab employees are as eager to find out the answers as I am.  Imagine, finding a new protein!  I could write a paper on the subject_.

            Mulder, Scully and Steve decided to head back to the main site to pick up the rental car, and work on their reports.  Mulder had already been to the main maintenance facility to inspect the railcars, and had confirmed that a collision had occurred by the damage to the couplings.  The collision was a large one, having bent one or two of the couplings so badly that they had to be removed and replaced. 

            Mulder and Scully decided to stay on site awaiting the results of the lab tests, which the lab indicated they would start as a top priority.  Steve dropped them off at the Warehouse Building, saying he needed to head back to Denver.  He wished them well, and asked them to stop by his office on their way out of town.  After promising to keep him informed, Mulder and Scully bid their farewells.

            Mitch met them at the Warehouse.  Mulder introduced him to Scully.

            "Mitch," Mulder began, "Do you have a room we can use with a couple of desks so we can work on our reports?  We'll need a power outlet for our laptops, and a phone, so we can get the results from the lab." he said.

            Mitch nodded, saying, "I know just the office.  It's right down the hall.  They moved the purchasing section to the Ops building, and the move left a vacant office.  It has phones and desks.  You can use them as long as you want.  I'll let the switchboard operator know that you're over here, so she can route any calls you may get."

            Although both Mulder and Scully had cellular phones, the batteries were getting low, and they wanted to save them for when they really needed them.  Mitch showed them to the office, which had two desks, separated by a portable divider.  Both desks had phones, and electric typewriters.  They looked from the clunky typewriters to their laptops and back again, grinning.  How far things had come!

            "I'll be down the hall in Instrumentation, if you need me." said Mitch, walking out.

            Mulder picked the first desk inside the room, and put his briefcase down.  Scully did the same at the second desk, sitting down.  Mulder pulled out his laptop computer and set it up.  He noticed the 'Battery Low' light flashing, and looked for his A/C cord.

            "Hey, Scully, I'll be right back.  I think I left the cord for my laptop in the car." he said.

            "I'm not going anywhere." she replied.  "You could get me a soda on your way back, though.  I saw a machine near the front desk.  Anything will do."

            "You've got it.  Be right back." he said, leaving the room.

            Scully set up her laptop computer and pulled out her notes.  She wished she had a tape player so she could listen to the autopsy tape.  She kicked off her shoes under the desk, hearing them hit the wall.  She knew that as an FBI agent, it was important to dress properly, but sometimes heels made her feet tired.  She heard the sounds of forklifts and talking behind the wall in front of her.  Of course, she was in the warehouse building.  They probably move things around all day and night.  Once she began to concentrate, the sounds would disappear, she knew.  As she started to type, she heard the sound of a spray can discharging in front of her.  _They must be spray painting something on the other side of the wall_ , she thought.  The sound didn't diminish, though.  She turned her head slightly, and realized that the sound wasn't on the other side of the wall, it was in this room.  She bent over and looked under the desk.  Staring her in the face was a coiled rattlesnake, at least three coils high!  It was making the hissing sound, its rattles vibrating wildly.  It was inches from her leg.  Her heart beat rapidly, sweat starting to form on her brow and hands.  She shouldn't move suddenly, she knew, but she also didn't dare move slowly.  Her legs were far enough under the desk that she couldn't simply spin on the chair to move them out of range.  She had only one course of action open, and she suddenly took it.  Taking a deep breath, and using the edge of the desk as a base, she launched herself backwards, gliding on the chair casters.  The sudden movement startled the snake, and he struck out, extending his body, mouth open wide with fangs bared.

            Just then, the casters of the chair reached the edge of the chairmat, and the chair tipped over, sending Scully to the floor.  The snake found its mark into her leg as her head struck the concrete floor, knocking her unconscious.

 

 

 

### ;Chapter 8

 

 

#### U.S. Department of Transportation Technology Center 

Warehouse Building

March 26 - 1:22 p.m.

 

 

            Mulder returned to the room, carrying two soda cans.

            "Scully," he said, as he entered the room, "I must have left my power cord at the motel.  Do your batteries still have enough life that you can loan me your cord?" he asked, as he rounded the partition to where she was sitting. 

            The scene in front of him took his breath away, and he nearly dropped the cans.  Scully was laying on the floor, unconscious, her chair tipped over, and a rattlesnake, at least two feet long, was stretched over her legs, tongue flicking the air.  He couldn't determine whether she had been bit from this angle, and couldn't get any closer until the snake was disposed of.  He didn't dare shoot it, since he was afraid he would hit Scully.

            He backed away slowly, trying not to startle the snake.  He knew she would be okay as long as she stayed unconscious.  He hoped she didn't wake up now.

            He got to the doorway, and yelled, "MITCH!  GET OVER HERE NOW!  I NEED YOUR HELP!"  He didn't take his eyes off Scully, or the snake.

            He heard the sound of running feet and Mitch and a companion rounded the corner, sounding winded.  "What's wrong?" Mitch asked.

            Mulder pointed, his hand trembling slightly, he noticed.  "That's what's wrong".

            Mitch and the other man took in the scene quickly.  "DAMN!" exclaimed Mitch.  "It's too early!  Craig," he ordered to the other man, "run out to the warehouse and tell Peter that we need a snake noose and bottle.  Then, get on the radio and have Christensen meet us over here with a snake bite kit, just in case."  Craig nodded and turned, rushing towards the door to the warehouse.

            "Jeez, I'm sorry, Mulder.  It's only March.  It never occurred to me to check the room for snakes.  We'll get her fixed up, though.  We've gotten pretty good at this." he said, ruefully.

            "Do you normally have rattlesnakes in the buildings?" Mulder asked, dumbfounded.

            "Afraid so, every morning.  Usually, it doesn't start until next month.  I guess spring is early this year.  Because the rails run under the doors into every building except Operations, the snakes slither into the buildings along the track.  They like it inside, it's warm in here.  During spring and summer, we have to check every office before we sit down at our desks in the morning.  That's what that pole is for." he said, pointing to a wooden dowel about four feet long, with a hook on the end, leaning up against the wall.  "We use that to open each drawer of every desk and cabinet and lift the lids on the credenzas.  You never know where they'll show up.  We actually found one once that had stuffed itself into the opening of the electric typewriter on your desk.  Really woke up the secretary when she turned it on.  Better than caffeine." he said, pointing to Mulder's desk.

            Mulder shuddered as he looked at Scully, feeling powerless to help her.  He had almost taken the desk Scully did.  Part of him wished he had.

            Just then, two men burst into the room, one carrying a water cooler bottle, and the other carrying what looked like a modified spear gun, with a loop of cord on one end.

            "There you go, Peter, Jim," said Mitch.  "Get it out of here."

            "Man," said Jim, "He's a big one all right.  Must have woken up cranky."  He walked forward, toward the snake, the red metal gun in front of him.  "Come on, boy, nobody's going to hurt you."

            The snake flicked its tongue rapidly, tried to get a reading on the new intruder.  It gave off no heat, but had movement.  The snake waved around slowly, body reared up, trying to get its bearings.  It jumped slightly as Jim pulled the trigger, the noose tightening around the snake's neck.  The snake began to writhe in earnest now, trying to break free.  Its body whipped loops in the air, as its rattle shook ominously.  Mulder hoped it didn't get loose.  It did not look like a happy camper.

            "Anytime, Peter!" said Jim.  "Get that bottle over here now!"

            Peter set the glass water cooler bottle on the floor.  Mulder looked on, fascinated.  Jim lifted the snake by the noose and carefully lowered the snake, rattles first, into the small opening of the bottle.  It just fit.  As the head reached the opening, Jim let go of the trigger, and the snake dropped the rest of the way into the bottle.  Peter put a plastic cover over the opening. 

            The snake tried to strike several times, but hit only glass.  It finally settled down, but remained alert, coiled in the bottom of the bottle.

            "What happens now?" asked Mulder.

            "Now, we take the bottle a mile or so from the buildings and remove the cap, turn the bottle on its side, and wait for the snake to leave. It will find its own way out.  We try not to kill the snakes.  Even if we aren't terribly fond of them, they do keep the rodent population down.

            A third man came into the room, carrying a bag and a cellular phone. 

            "Mulder," said Mitch, "this is Harry Christensen.  He's our on-site EMT.  He'll take care of your partner."

            Harry set to work, examining her body.  He found the snake bite on her leg, the edges of the punctures torn, the skin already starting to swell and discolor from the venom.

            "Well, I can't tell if the snake got in a good bite or not. Harry said.  "The punctures look about the right depth, but with the torn edges, she may have missed the main bulk of toxin.  Unfortunately, since she's not awake, I don't dare give her an anti-venom.  She could be allergic.  I've already called for an ambulance, since you said she was unconscious."  He reached for his cellular phone, and dialed a number.  The telephone number was a special number on the hospital switchboard, and the nurse station knew immediately that it was the Track EMT calling.  A doctor answered the line.

            "Dr. Johnson.  Is this Harry?" he asked.

            "Yeah, Doc, it's me.  Hey, I've got a female patient with a snakebite and unconscious.  What do you want me to do?" he asked.

            "Well, is she unconscious because of the snake bite, or otherwise?" he asked.

            "No, it looks like she hit her head on the floor.  The snakebite only occurred a few minutes ago." he replied.

            "Is an ambulance on the way?" asked the doctor.

            "Yeah, they should be here any minute.  Should I just pack her in ice and bring her in, or risk the anti-venom?" asked Harry.

            "No, I don't want to risk the anti-venom until we look at her," said the doctor.  "Immobilize her leg and ice it to keep the swelling down.  We'll be waiting for her."

            "Thanks, Doc." said Harry.  "See you in a few minutes."

            They spent the next few minutes until the ambulance arrived splinting Scully's leg and packing ice around her calf.  They completed the package by wrapping the lower part of the splint with kitchen plastic wrap to hold in the ice.

            Scully woke up with a start as the ambulance attendants started to load her into the ambulance.  She opened her eyes to see Mulder standing over her.

            "Hi," he said gently.  "How are you feeling?"

            "Like I have a hangover after a rock concert," she said, blinking rapidly to clear her head.  "What happened?"

            "You got on a rattlesnake's bad side and smacked your head on the floor." said Mulder, smiling slightly.  "If you didn't want to go skiing, you could have just said so."

            Scully smiled weakly.

            "There isn't room for me in there, so I'll follow you over in the car." said Mulder, squeezing her hand. 

            "Okay," said Scully, closing her eyes and going to sleep.

 

 

 

### Chapter 9

 

#### ;St. Mary's Hospital 

Pueblo, Colorado

March 26 - 5:10 p.m

 

 

            Scully woke up in a hospital bed.  David Angeletti was looking down at her, looking amused.

            "I didn't expect to see you again this soon," he said, grinning.  "A person might think that you missed me."

            "Trust me," she said softly, her own voice echoing in her head like a loudspeaker, "I wouldn't attempt to feel like this intentionally, whether or not I missed you."  She closed her eyes again, the lights hurting them.

            "Well, it's about time for you to wake up, anyway," said David.  "It's almost dinnertime.  Roast chicken tonight!"

            "Sorry I'll miss it.  I don't plan to stay." she said, sitting up.  A moan escaped her lips and she tightly closed her eyes until the room stopped spinning.

            "Uh, uh, uh," said David, firmly pushing her back down.  "You've got a nasty bump on your head.  We want to keep you overnight in case you've got a concussion.  And, I don't think you'll be doing much walking on that right leg." he added.

            "My leg?  What about my . . .," she said, and then remembered herself falling as the chair tipped over, feeling the snake's fangs enter her calf.  Twin points of searing pain.  She looked down, and saw her leg, still in the splint to prevent mobility, an ice pack keeping the blood flow to a minimum.

            "Plus," added David, "Agent Mulder left a few minutes ago,  with strict instructions that you were not to be released until there was no possibility of a concussion.  He said you would try to discharge yourself, accepting responsibility for the consequences, and told me that if you tried to leave, I was to call him on his cellular phone," he added, waiving a slip of paper, "and he would come over here and tie you to the bed!  I told him not to worry, since I didn't plan to let you leave anyway."  He looked at her challengingly, daring her to say anything, arms folded across his chest, standing defensively.

            Scully looked at him, deciding whether to put up a fight.  It annoyed her _(or did it please her?)_ that Mulder was so concerned about her welfare.  She hated just laying around while there was so much work to be done.  _I'll have to find a way to repay Mulder for his kindness_ , she thought with a sly smile.  Oh, well, maybe they'd at least let her have her laptop to work on.  She sighed deeply and resignedly, and said, "What did you say was for dinner?"

 

                                                                          * * *

            Mulder felt bad leaving Scully still asleep at the hospital, but he needed to get more information on Blue Lights.  He had a gut-wrenching feeling that the engineer's death wasn't going to be an isolated incident.

            He pulled into the parking lot of the newspaper office, parked the car, and went into the building.  After speaking with the clerk and finding out the location of the newspaper morgue, he went into the basement and found a table.  _Damn!_ , he thought, _all they have are microfiche machines.  I'll be motion sick in an hour._   He tried not to think about his churning stomach and aching head as the pages flashed by.  He searched for information through back issues of the newspaper and related sources about Blue Lights.  He found several entries about sightings, but no information that was helpful to him.  A shadow crossed the screen, and he saw the reflection of a tall, heavy man behind him.  He turned around on his chair.

            "Evenin', sir," said the man, looking at Mulder suspiciously, "Can I help you find something?" 

            "Maybe," said Mulder, without emotion, his defenses up.  "Do you know where I can find information about Blue Lights?"

            "I might, and I might not.  Do you mind if I ask why you're interested?" the man said, looking pointedly at Mulder.

            "Yes." replied Mulder.

            The man started to say something, and then, realizing what Mulder had just said, looked confused, then surprised, then burst into a grin and began to laugh, his voice reverberating through the basement.  Mulder remained emotionless.

            "Mr. Mulder, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.  Name's Joe Martin," he said, extending his hand.

            It was Mulder's turn to look surprised.  "You know who I am?" he asked, shaking Mr. Martin's hand.

            "This is a small town, Agent Mulder, and I'm the editor of the paper.  I know most everything that goes on here.  Bob Lopez was a very important man in town, and he was a friend of mine.  I've been keeping my eyes and ears open."  He moved to a desk and opened a file folder.  "Special Agent Fox William Mulder and Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C.  Assigned to investigate cause of death at DOT site.  Present section assignment in FBI unknown," he said, as Mulder's eyebrows raised.  "I have my sources."

            "I'm impressed, I admit.  Do your sources have any information on Blue Lights?" he asked.

            "A one track mind.  I like that.  You'd make a good reporter.  You don't get flustered easily.  And, in answer to your question, yes, I have a great deal of information on Blue Lights.  It's a hobby of mine," he said, smiling, extending his hand toward a chair on the other side of a beat-up wooden desk bearing the name plaque, 'C. E. Martin', "Have a seat.  What would you like to know?"

            "Why were they spotted over the DOT site at the time the train crashed?" asked Mulder.

            "They were what?" asked the editor.  "No, that's impossible." he said, shaking his head.  "Couldn't happen.  Whoever told you that lied."

            "Either that, or my sources are more informed than yours." Mulder replied, amusedly.

            "Mr. Mulder," began the editor. 

            "Just Mulder, Mr. Martin." replied Mulder.

            "Fair enough," he said, "Just call me Joe."

            Mulder looked at the name plate on the desk, and then said "Joe?  How do you get 'Joe' out of that name?"

            The editor grinned, "Carlton Edward Martin, VI, at your service, sir.  After six generations of a name like Carlton Edward, pretty much every possibility of name originality has been exhausted.  My father decided that I should be the first not to get trapped in the loop and allowed me to pick the name I wanted to be called.  I liked 'Joe'." he said.  "I think we're a lot alike, you and I, Fox," trying the name to see Mulder's reaction.  The reaction was as he expected, as a cold shadow passed over Mulder's face.  "That was a test, by the way.  I won't call you Fox if you don't call me Carlton, Edward, or any combination thereof."

            Mulder smiled.  "I think you're right, Joe.  We're going to get along just fine."

            They spent the next hour drinking bitter coffee and talking about Blue Lights.  Blue Lights was the name of an unexplained phenomenon that existed in one particular location at the edge of the city.  Mulder looked at photographs, such as they were, of the phenomenon.  Photographs didn't seem to come out any better on a clear night in Pueblo as on stormy nights back East.  He learned that it had never been sighted outside of the one location, and appeared on request, not by happenstance.  It never appeared in bad weather, and always appeared as three bright blue lights, in a triangle pattern, never moving apart.  It was assumed that the three lights were a single unit.  The first recorded sighting was in the '50s, and it was now considered a rite of passage for teenagers, driving to the site after getting their license and waiting for them to appear.  It only appeared while people were in cars, and only if three or less people were in the car.  Most everyone that grew up in Pueblo had witnessed them at one time or another, and they were considered, if not intelligent, at least friendly.  Joe agreed to take Mulder to the vacant lot later in the evening, when they were most likely to appear.

            "Anything else you want to chat about while we wait for it to get dark?" asked Joe.  "Or do you want to grab a bite to eat on the way?"

            "If you don't mind, I'll wait on dinner.  Oh, I happened upon a couple of articles that talked about the building of an incinerator at the edge of town at the 'U.S. Army Chemical Disposal Project'.  What do you know about the incinerator?" asked Mulder.

            "Well, the Project, formerly known as the Pueblo Army Depot, by the way--we still don't know why they changed the name--was recently awarded a government contract to dispose of toxic chemicals from World Wars I and II and Korea by incineration.  Nerve gas, mustard gas, solid rocket fuel, etc.  All part of the disarmament treaty with Russia."  replied Joe.  Mulder's ears perked up.

            "I thought that I read that it was already under construction.  Why have there been such a flurry of articles in the last several months?" asked Mulder.

            "You read quick!  I didn't think I left you down here that long." commented Joe.  "The big issue lately has been the budget cutbacks by the Democratic Presidency.  Funding got cut halfway through the project, and now, instead of the high temperature incinerator that was planned, they plan to construct a low temperature incinerator with a catalytic converter.  I don't know if it can do the job."

            "Why not?" Mulder queried.

            "Well, the whole principle behind the incinerator was that the chemicals would be reduced to their base elements in the 2,500 degree fire.  That theory is sound, and I supported the construction.  But the low temperature version, running only 800 degrees, may not burn everything down.  They swear that they've checked the specs and it should work.  I would just hate to have a city of over a quarter million people be guinea pigs if it doesn't." said Joe.

            Mulder had only heard the words 'nerve gas' and 'temperature' out of the conversation.  It was enough for him.  His mind correlated data from the past several days at high speed, and wondered if there was a connection.

            "Joe," Mulder said, "After we see Blue Lights, would you mind taking a trip with me out to the Depot?"

            "I guess not," he replied.  "But it's pretty heavily guarded right now.  I doubt we'll get very close."

            "Why is it closely guarded right now?" asked Mulder.

            "The incineration is supposed to start in three days, and there are enough chemical weapons out there right now to start the next World War." stated Joe.

            Mulder nodded.  He supposed that as many wars and as much terrorist activity as there was throughout the world right now, the precaution was justified.  That didn't mean, however, that he wouldn't try to verify a theory he had.

                                                                         *  *  *

            They drove to the vacant lot in silence.  The trip took only a few minutes.  At the edge of the city, the vast prairie spread before them in never-ending blackness, freckled with pinpoints of light.  Joe pulled off the road into a vacant lot.  It was surrounded by a city-style curb, as though something had once existed there.

            "Was this lot ever developed?" asked Mulder.

            "Once," replied Joe, "it was, of all things, a gas station." he laughed.

            "Why is that funny?" questioned Mulder.

            "Well, the big spectacle with Blue Lights is that once you drive into the lot, the car goes dead in a few minutes, and you have to wait out the phenomenon.  As the saying goes, 'At first the customers disliked it, but they soon learned to hate it'," he chuckled.  "The place didn't last long.  They cut their losses."

            Mulder chuckled as well.  He had to admit, it was pretty poor planning on the part of the owners.

            "So what happens now?" asked Mulder.  He had taken his camera out. It had special high speed infrared film.  He hoped to capture the lights on film.  Joe saw him taking the camera out. 

            "Best of luck," he said.  "I've tried for years to have photos come out.  Hasn't happened yet.  Maybe they'll like you better."

            Suddenly, the headlights, dash lights and radio went dead.  All sound stopped.  Mulder was afraid to speak, in case nothing came out when he tried.

            He looked at Joe. 

            Joe nodded. 

            It was happening.

            The car was bathed in blue light, from somewhere above the car.  Mulder twisted forward to look straight up through the windshield.

            Nothing.

            He sat back and looked back to Joe.  He was taken aback by Joe's expression.  It was one of delight, of awe.  He was looking past Mulder out the side window.  Mulder turned to his right.  It was like looking into a flashcube as it went off.  Three blue lights floated outside of his window.  He brought the camera up, and. . .

            They were gone.

            In the instant it took to get the camera to his eye, they disappeared.  He was disappointed.  He had hoped for more.

            Joe gasped.

            Mulder turned again, facing front.  The lights had reappeared, but they were now in a circle, spinning slowly.  They hovered just on the other side of the windshield.  Mulder touched his hand to the windshield.  It was ice cold.  Colder than the side window, as he felt, comparing.  The lights never moved to Joe's side of the car, but Joe was enthralled, just the same.  The experience lasted over five minutes, as the lights danced and pirouetted outside the car.  Mulder was fascinated, and charmed.  There was nothing frightening about this experience.  It felt playful.  He was sorry when it ended.

            The car started.

            The lights and radio came back on.

            Joe and Mulder sat in the car for a few minutes before speaking.  Joe drove the car out of the lot, and back onto the road.  "That was absolutely incredible!" he finally said.

            "How so?" asked Mulder, feeling the same emotions.  "That's pretty much what you led me to believe would happen."

            "I don't know.  They seemed. . . drawn to you, or your side of the car, anyway.  That was the longest I have ever known them to appear.  And, in the entire time that I have studied them, I have NEVER seen them spin in a circle like that." he commented.

            "Go with it, Joe," said Mulder.  "You never know what's going to happen when I'm around."

            "I can believe that," he said.  "Well, on to the Depot?"

            "Absolutely.  After what just happened, nothing can stop me now!" replied Mulder, looking immensely satisfied.

 

 

### Chapter 10

 

 

#### U.S. Army Chemical Disposal Project 

Pueblo, Colorado

March 26 - 9:30 p.m.

 

 

            Joe turned off the lights and engine, and coasted the car to just outside the circle of lights surrounding the Depot.  There were trucks moving inside the gate, as men in black uniforms started unloading trucks.

            "Now, why do you suppose they are taking the trouble to unload all those trucks in the middle of the night?" asked Mulder, both to Joe and to himself.

            "Inquiring minds want to know," replied Joe, as he slipped down in the seat, watching the scene unfold.

            "I'm going out there.  I'll try to get closer and see what they're unloading." said Mulder.

            "Be careful," said Joe, "Those don't look like capguns they're holding."

            Mulder slipped out of the car silently, leaving the car door slightly ajar, in case they needed to make a quick exit.  He crept forward, staying in the shadows.  He saw headlights in the distance.  Another group of trucks.  _Busy night at the OK Corral_ , he thought.  He moved as close to the chain link fence as he could without being seen.  As the guard opened the gate, he slipped inside beside one of the trucks.

            Once inside, it was easy to stay out of sight, even with the bright lights.  There were piles of pallets and barrels to hide behind, and too much activity to notice a strange movement.  He moved ever closer, moving from concealed spot to concealed spot with ease.  He finally got close enough to hear voices.  One voice stood out, as the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle.  _I know that voice_ , he thought, trying to place it.  He knew it was risky to move closer, but closer he went, slipping along the ground on his belly, his gun in his hand.  He hoped he wouldn't have to use it.

            He heard the voice again, coming from the shadows, as it always had.  X!  Sometimes a friend, sometimes a deadly enemy, X had a reputation of showing up when Mulder least expected it.  He certainly didn't expect it here!  Mulder had never been able to learn his name, but he had it on good authority that X was a highly placed intelligence agent that was occasionally on Mulder's side, helping point towards the truth.  At other times, he spread Mulder disinformation, slowing him down enough that the truth stayed just out of his grasp.  If X was involved in whatever was going on here, it was serious.  He needed more information.

            He moved stealthily toward the spot where the pallets were being unloaded.  He felt certain that the activity here tonight had some bearing on their investigation.  He reached into his pocket and removed a red ink marker that he had brought along.  He reached over and marked a red 'X' near the bottom of two of the barrels.  It was all he could do for now.  He would have to come back later.  For now, he had to get out so he could decide what to do.

            Even more carefully than before, he slipped toward the gate.  X had not seen him.  Mulder was sure that had X known he was there, Mulder certainly would have been killed to prevent knowledge of whatever they were doing from being revealed.  As he rounded the next obstacle, looking for his exit, he stepped down and choked back a scream.  He looked down at his foot, which had become impaled on a nail sticking up out of a piece of wood from a pallet.  The nail had traveled through his shoe sole, into the bottom of his foot, and nearly out the top.  As pain seared his mind, he quietly sat down.  Grasping the board with the nail in both hands, he quickly and efficiently pulled the nail out of his foot with a jerk.  He bit down on his tongue nearly until it bled and tried to slow down his heart so he could think clearly.  He knew he would have to be especially careful now.  One wrong move, and he wouldn't have the ability to get away.

            He shifted his weight to the side of his foot, as the dull pain throbbed.  He realized he was bleeding onto the sand, leaving a trail, and took a moment behind a pile of barrels to stuff his handkerchief into his shoe to stem the flow.  It hurt worse, but he would live.

            He reached the car, limping.  He slid into the passenger seat, and Joe said, "What happened to you in there?  You're white as a ghost!"

            "I ran a nail through my foot.  I think our next stop needs to be the hospital." Mulder whispered hoarsely, clenching his fists.

            "Well, don't bleed all over my carpet," said Joe, attempting levity.  "I just had it detailed."

                                                                         *  *  *

            Mulder sat on the table in the emergency room as the staff doctor X-rayed his foot.  He had been surprised when Joe had merely dropped him off at the hospital, saying that he needed to go home and get some sleep.  He had used Mulder's phone during the trip to the hospital to call one of his employees at the paper.  The aide had driven Mulder's car to the hospital to meet them.  Mulder wondered whether he would ever get to the point in his life where the need to sleep was more important than finding the truth.  He hoped not.

            The emergency room was surprisingly quiet.  In Washington, on any night of the week, all of the trauma rooms would have been full and there would be an additional 20 or 30 people waiting.  Doctors and nurses would be rushing between rooms, calming families and treating the patient's wounds. 

            The X-rays came back negative, showing only the puncture wound, with no broken bones or severed tendons.

            "You're a lucky man, Mr. Mulder," said Dr. Angeletti.  "Your foot will hurt for awhile, but there's no permanent damage.  You'll want to stay off your foot as much as possible for the next several days, and will need to change the dressing every few hours for the first day.  I'll prescribe some medication to help with the pain."  he went on.  "By the way, when did you last have a tetanus shot?"

            "I can answer that," said a voice from the door.  Scully was standing there, a sly smile on her face, leaning on crutches.

            "Dana, what are you doing out of bed?" asked David.

            "Dana??" repeated Mulder, eyebrows raised.

            Scully shot him her best ' _mind your own business_ ' look.  She said, sweetly, "I just heard your voices and thought I could be of some help."

            "Are you familiar with Mr. Mulder's medical history?" asked David.

            "Oh, absolutely," she said.  Mulder could see that she had something up her sleeve. 

            Mulder cut in, "I'm sure it's only been a few years since my last shot."

            "Oh, no, Mulder," said Scully, looking to Mulder as innocent as a baby ( _a baby rattlesnake)_ "I'm quite certain that your last shot was  at least ten and a half years ago."

            It didn't sound right to Mulder, but he could see no reason to doubt her. . . yet.

            "Well, Mr. Mulder, if it's been that long, I would really recommend a booster shot.  The puncture was deep, and you said it was from a nail.  Tetanus is not pretty and it's difficult to treat," said David.  "But, of course, it's your choice."

            His words dripping sarcasm, Mulder said, "Of course, I'll trust Dr. Scully's expert opinion."  He then looked at her, his eyes burning into hers, "But remember, Scully, if I get back to Washington and find out that my last shot was a day less than ten years ago, you will pay . . . dearly!"

            Scully simply smiled, thoroughly enjoying herself.  _(Trap me in the hospital, will you?)_

            "Well, Mr. Mulder," said David, holding up the needle, "Do you prefer the arm or hip?"

            "You should probably give it to him in the hip, David," said Scully, still smiling, "He may need his arm strength in the next few days.  Plus, it will be a more effective countermeasure closer to the wound."

            "Oh, absolutely, David," said Mulder through clenched teeth, looking straight into Scully's eyes, "give it to me wherever Scully feels is proper." 

            Scully held his gaze the entire time the shot was slowly injected into the large muscle of his hip, the corners of her mouth curling slightly each time Mulder twitched.  The stinging merely fueled Mulder's thoughts of revenge.  _We'll see, Scully, we'll see._

 

 

 

### Chapter 11

 

#### Joe Martin's Office 

The Pueblo Record

March 26 - 11:50 p.m.

 

 

            Mulder had been wrong about Joe Martin.  Sleep meant nothing to him.  As early as last month, he had been up for four days straight with no sleep and no food.

            He did not go home.  He drove back to the office. 

            He had work to do.

            He called his wife at home.  The telephone rang three times, then four.  A woman's voice, heavy with sleep, said, "'Lo?"

            "Hi, Hon," said Joe.  "Sorry to wake you."

            "It's okay.  What's up?" she said, becoming alert.  She had learned from experience that a call at this time of night could be anything from 'I'm out with the boys and will be late' to 'I'm in jail in Mexico'.

            "Something's breaking.  I won't be home." said Joe, apologetically.

            "Okay," said his wife, Betty.  This was also nothing new.  After 35 years of marriage to a newspaperman, lonely nights were a way of life.  "Let someone know where you'll be." she said, through a yawn.

            "Of course," said Joe.  "Try to get some sleep."

            "You know me when my head hits the pillow," she said with a laugh.

            "Down and out for the count," responded Joe, with a grin.

            They said their good-byes, and hung up.  As Betty Martin lay back down, she didn't allow herself the luxury of worry.  There would be time enough to worry in the morning if nobody had heard from him.  The wife of a crime reporter, like the spouse of a police officer or firefighter, became familiar with the shadow of death hovering on their doorstep.  At any time, their loved ones  may not come home.  Worrying prematurely often led to sleepless nights of imagined disasters far above what had happened.  They also knew the toll worry took on the body.  At least one person in the partnership had to remain in top condition for whatever lay ahead.  She was asleep in moments.

            Joe didn't hang up the phone.  He merely hit the disconnect button with his finger, and, hitting the next button on the multi-line telephone set, quickly dialed a number.  One of the advantages of being an editor was having reliable sources of information in high places.  He had gained the confidence of many people in diverse areas.  The one he dialed now was a Sergeant at the army base in Colorado Springs.  Joe wanted more information about the Special Forces unit that had been deployed at the Depot.  He knew that there was nothing at the Depot that should normally cause the activity he saw tonight.  The Sergeant told him he would find out what he could and call back within the hour.

            Joe called other people as well, spreading his net of information-gathering broadly.  While he waited for calls back, he had time to again review the information he had obtained on Agents Mulder and Scully.  He had told Mulder only a brief portion of the information he had gathered on them.  As Joe and Mulder had sat talking, Joe had the opportunity to observe Mulder, confirming much of the information he already had, and making incredibly accurate speculations about Mulder's character.  Many people knew that Joe was smart, but only a few knew how well he scrutinized people, correlating his observations into accurate, nearly psychic, snapshots of the person's character.  Joe knew that he and Mulder were more alike than Mulder ever believed.  They were both seekers of truth.  Joe understood the insatiable thirst to find truth.  Reporters, like investigators, were split into groups of why they did their jobs.  Some did their jobs, and did them well, for the money, and some for the promise of wealth or power.  But people like Joe and Mulder sought truth for the pure beauty of it.  They also had a nearly overpowering compulsion to throw light into the shadows.  Joe likened himself to a professional housekeeper, throwing open windows and cleaning the dirt and grime until the gloom disappeared and the beauty of an object showed through.

            The truth was often difficult to find, though.  Mulder believed the truth to be a swift flying thing that he must chase down and hold tight to before it flew away again.  In looking at Mulder's record,  Joe thought that Mulder's truths may well be as fleet of foot as Mulder believed.  But Joe's truths were different.  His truths were like a precious ore.  Often, the truth was lying on the ground, staring you in the face, and you wondered why others who came before you hadn't seen it.  More often, though, the truth was buried in solid rock, and you had to use sweat, muscle and talent to break through the rock to find the ore.  Joe knew that the ore, when held up to the light, would shine brightly. 

            The truth could be beautiful to behold. 

            But, many times, the truth  would explode when exposed to the light of day, destroying families and friendships in a huge, fiery burst.  Joe knew a great deal about the exploding kind of truths, the kind that caused pain and anger in those around him.

            Joe had earned his reporter's wings in the hard-bitten world of Chicago in the 50's and 60's.  He secured a job as a cub reporter at a large newspaper through his family's connections, but kept it through his own skill.  Early on, he sought out the underworld and political scandals that were the bread-and-butter of the large newspapers of the Windy City, and learned he had a talent for it.  His hard-driving reporting style was well suited to a city where there was dirt under every rock, and a scandal around every corner. 

            His first exploding truth came at the cost of his own family.  He learned that everything he had believed to be truth in his childhood was smoke and mirrors.  When he learned that in reality, his family's money was from political payoffs, and his family's influence was through connections to the underworld, he almost came apart.  He heard the whispers behind his back when the story broke, saw the pain and humiliation in his Mother's eyes as his Father and Grandfather were removed from their family estate in handcuffs, their fortunes lost, all because of him and his rigid sense of principles. 

            He nearly stopped reporting then, when his family disowned him for choosing his own integrity over his family, but he didn't.  He left Chicago forever, moving from place to place over the years, marrying his lovely bride of 35 years, and finally ending up here, in his retirement job.  His family had never even met his wife or children.  His Mother had never held her grandchildren.  And he never stopped looking for the truth.  But the truth is a hard mistress.  It gave him a knowing look, a haunted look, that was with him even now.

            Mulder had that look.  Joe wondered to himself what horrible truths had thrust themselves upon Mulder to give him that intense look so early in life.  Joe looked at the file again.  The shining star of the Violent Crimes Unit, Mulder had a brilliant mind.  He had the ability to discover the truths behind the actions that some of the most depraved criminal, and criminally insane, minds could conceive. 

            A psychologist in a psychotic world. 

            He wondered what drove the man, and his partner.

            He looked at the copy of Scully's personnel photo.  She was attractive, younger than Mulder.  How had they come together?  What had driven her to this life, this career? he wondered.  Did she have the same knowing look, beyond her years, as Mulder?  His report said she was practical, down-to-earth, a scientist, and a doctor.  An interesting pair, these two.

            The phone rang.

            "Yeah," said Joe, into the phone.  At this time of night, only the people that he had called would be calling.

 

 

 

###  Chapter 12

 

#### El Pueblo Motel 

Pueblo, Colorado

March 27 - 7:45 a.m.

 

 

            Mulder woke up to find low, grey clouds hanging over the City.  The weather forecast called for rain all day.  He picked up Scully at the hospital.  The doctor, _David_ , thought Mulder with a snort, had released her with a clean bill of health.  They drove in silence to a local restaurant that Steve Forman had recommended.

            _Finally_ , thought Scully, looking at the cool grey clouds, _weather that I have clothes for!_

            Mulder was thinking the exact opposite, _Today of all days!  I've got to stand out in this mess for the next five hours._   He sighed.  He was miserable.  He had not had a good reaction to the tetanus shot, which was normal for him.  He spent most of the night in the bathroom.  Between vomiting and cold sweats, he had gotten nearly no sleep.  He had a knot on his hip the size of a robin's egg, and still felt queasy.

            The previous night's tension was behind them.  They were a team, and were investigating an X-File.  All they had was each other to rely on.  Mulder spent the first few minutes apprising Scully of his late-night trip to the Depot, and seeing X. 

            "So, what do we do now that we know X is involved?" asked Scully. "Do we need to change our strategy?"

            "No, I think that splitting up is still a good idea," said Mulder.  "The dedication and ribbon cutting at the incinerator could even draw X out into the open.  I'll attend the party, but you need to go to the lab in Colorado Springs and see if you can help quantify the protein.  We need to know how it ticks, and how to get rid of it." he said.

            "I'll drop you off at the car rental place so you can get yourself a car.  We'll both need to stay mobile until this is over," said Scully, standing up.  She was wearing a tailored pantsuit that hid the bruise on her calf.  She started to put on her raincoat, and, losing her balance, stumbled into the table.  Mulder caught her arm.

            "Hey, careful there," he said, "You don't want to go banging up that leg again."  Scully grimaced.  The muscles in her calf had taken the brunt of the venom, and had weakened considerably.  She would need some therapy when she returned to Washington.

            "You should talk," she said, pointing to his foot, and noting his pale complexion, "you're not in much better shape."  She felt concerned for him, and just a bit guilty.

            He grinned ruefully.

            "Well, let's get this show on the road," he said.  "I've already called Steve to tell him that I would attend the dedication.  He and a couple of his guys will be there, too.  The dedication will probably draw several state senators, and I understand the Governor will be there, as well."

            "Lucky you," said Scully, "I'll be spending my day with a killer protein."

                                                                         *  *  *

            Mulder parked his rental car in the parking lot, and, seeing Steve, gingerly walked toward him.  He noticed three other men standing close to Steve, and he assumed they were Steve's men.  He didn't remember them from the investigation on site.  _You can always spot an FBI agent_ , he thought, _they stand out._   All were wearing raincoats and dark suits.  He wondered how the FBI and CIA managed to catch anyone.  The bad guys must see them coming a mile away.

            Mulder raised his hand over the crowd in the parking lot.  Steve caught the movement and motioned him over.  He introduced Mulder to the two other agents.  _Two?_ thought Mulder, _I thought there were three._   Mulder pulled Steve to the side, and said, "How many guys do you have out here?"

            "Just me and two others," said Steve with a shrug, "Why?"

            "As I was walking toward you, I noticed another man in a long coat, who looked like an agent.  Could he be security for the site or one of the dignitaries?" asked Mulder.

            "No, I know most everyone out here.  Would you recognize him again if you saw him?" asked Steve, instantly regretting the question.  Mulder had a photographic memory; of course he would remember the man.

            "Absolutely," said Mulder, ignoring the slip, "We'd better fan out and keep an eye out for him.  You'll be able to spot him in a minute, Steve.  He looks just like one of us.  But, if he's not one of us, he could be trouble."

            All thoughts of the incinerator dedication, and the pain in his hip and foot, were pushed out of Mulder's mind as he searched the faces in the crowd for the man in the long coat.  Newspaper and television reporters were everywhere, and senators and congressmen mingled with the crowd.  Mulder took the precaution of removing his weapon from its holster and putting it in his pocket.  He didn't want to start a panic, but needed to be prepared.  _It could be nothing_ , he thought, _maybe I'm just getting paranoid_.  But he didn't think so. 

            Suddenly, he saw the man, moving with studied motions toward the podium, where the Governor, whom Steve had pointed out to him, was talking with a reporter.  Mulder tried to move through the sea of people, cutting the shortest path to intercept the man.  He ignored a sharp pain in his foot, realizing belatedly that it had started to bleed again, feeling the wetness soaking through the dressing.  Mulder watched as the man reached underneath his trenchcoat, and started to remove something.  Steve had seen Mulder as he took off across the crowd, and spotted the man reaching into his coat at the same instant that Mulder did.  Steve reached into his coat as well, and started to cut an interception course from the opposite direction.  Mulder was stymied by a camera crew just setting up.  He got his feet caught in the cords as he tried to cut around them, nearly tripping.  He knew that he wouldn't reach the man in time now, but saw Steve headed that same direction.

            Steve decided to end the parry and thrust, and began moving with deliberate speed now, pushing people out of the way roughly, as the man reached the Governor.  He launched himself into the air in a flying tackle, catching the man at waist level and bringing him to the ground in a tangle of feet and arms.  A 9mm automatic, fitted with a silencer, clattered to the ground.  The man tried to get up and get away, but Steve stunned him with a right uppercut, and began to roughly handcuff him.

            The Governor's security team, just realizing what had nearly happened, came forward and took over, removing the man to a waiting car.

            The Governor looked ashen.  The reporter, having seen what had just transpired, and realizing that she had an exclusive, tried to get the Governor to comment on the gunman.  Naturally, he wouldn't.  The reporter then tried to pin down Steve to get his story, asking how he realized that there was a problem, and praising his quick response.  Steve also declined to comment, leaving the reporter looking frustrated.  She returned to her camera crew to start her "exclusive" report on the attempted assassination of the Governor.

            Mulder came over to where Steve was talking with the Governor. Steve looked decidedly embarrassed.  "Well, thank you, sir," he was saying, "but really, I was just doing my job."  The Governor continued to praise Steve, to the agent's consternation.  When Steve was finally able to break away, he let out a sigh.

            "Hey, you should be happy," said Mulder, teasingly.  "You're going to get a medal for your troubles."

            "Yeah, but it shouldn't be my medal, Mulder.  You spotted the guy, not me.  If you hadn't noticed him, I would be standing here trying to explain how I let the Governor be killed." said Steve.

            "You were quicker than me, that's all.  The important part is, the guy was caught before he did any damage." said Mulder.

            Steve nodded, realizing that Mulder was correct.

                                                                         *  *  *

 

            Scully had a pleasant drive to the lab in Colorado Springs, gazing with an emotion approaching reverence at the majestic peaks that towered above the flat prairie, the tops hidden by the low mist.  Beyond the mountains peeked ominous, midnight blue clouds threatened a later storm.  The ribbon of highway had been baked to a sandy grey.  The lines of tar that filled numerous cracks slipped by her in complex patterns, looking like a secret language.

            She arrived at the lab and was met by several lab technicians.  After she was brought up to date, they began to test the protein in earnest.  Many hours later, Scully had finally been able to isolate the molecule that attached to the nerve ending, absorbing the enzyme, and separated this "pure protein" for further testing. 

            She again looked into the microscope, her fingers, in the clean suit, expertly adjusting the dials to bring the slide into focus.  _Damn!_ she thought, _It's still alive_.  Between she and the other technicians at the lab, they had subjected the protein to every imaginable torture, attempting to see what would destroy, inhibit, or otherwise render it harmless.  _It's a hardy beast_ , she thought. 

            It seemed to be able to live in the atmosphere for an unlimited time without food, laying dormant until its next meal came along.  Various acids, such as sulfuric and hydrochloric, had killed the protein, but only in quantities sufficient to also kill the host.  They had done tests on animals, creating a weak dilution of the protein, which they injected into lab animals.  It fed on any living creature with a nervous system, including mammals, birds, fish and . . . as they had already determined, humans.  It seemed to adapt nicely to its host.  If the particular enzyme was not available, it killed just as effectively by using another enzyme as a food source, all in the blink of an eye.  They had determined that it could transfer from host to host either by absorption through the skin or by ingestion, in the same manner as a nerve gas.

            Scully was getting a headache.  She had been looking at slides and performing tests all day, and still had little more information than when she arrived.  The protein seemed impervious to their best efforts.  _The perfect biological weapon_ , she thought.  _Thank God nobody used it during one of the wars.  It could have been the end of humanity._   She decided to call it a day.  The other technicians looked beat, as well.  They headed out of the clean room, checking for rips in each others suits before they disrobed.  Nobody dared consider what would happen if the protein got out of the clean room.  The agents on the site had been extremely fortunate that they hadn't become infected while taking samples. 

            One of the techs, Tim, handed Scully the results of the test on the fabric from the day they arrived, as well as the urine samples from the two employees at the Track.  She had nearly forgotten about the requested tests.  It was hard to believe it was only two days ago. 

            Her eyebrows raised.  Mulder had been on to something, after all.  Both the fabric in the pants and shirt showed traces of platinum.  The concentration was higher in the scorched fabric at the edges than in the protected area.  At the moment, she didn't know what it meant, but she would keep it in mind. 

            The tests of the urine also surprised her.  The sample did indeed show the absence of the enzyme, but by inhibition by a nerve gas.  She did not recognize the composition of the gas immediately.  There was no trace of the protein, however.  _Interesting_ , she thought.

            She cleaned up and said good-bye to the other technicians.  She would be back in the morning, she said, to check on the experiments.

                                                                         *  *  *

            The gunman sat in the back of the car, his hands cuffed behind him.  Next to him in the back seat, one of the Governor's security team sat, watching the scenery zip by outside the window.  As the car accelerated on the highway towards Denver, without warning, the driver of the car turned around and casually shot the security man between the eyes, the blood and tissue splattering on the gunman.

            "You failed," said the driver.

            "I know," said the gunman.

            "What went wrong?" asked the driver.

            "He couldn't get to me in time," said the gunman, looking annoyed, "I think his foot is still bothering him.  Shall I try again?"

            "No," said the driver, looking into the rearview mirror to reveal his dark skin and greying beard, "he recognizes you now.  He has a photographic memory.  You won't be able to get close enough again.  Go after the woman.  I'll get him out of the way myself."

            "Dispose of her?" asked the gunman, cocking his head.

            "No!" said the driver, a trifle too sharply, "Just inconvenience her enough to keep her out of the way.  But make sure that she knows why she is being inconvenienced."  His eyes narrowed in the rear view mirror.  "Under no circumstances are you to kill either one without my express approval.  Is that understood?"

            "Of course."  The gunman felt irritated with himself, and embarrassed, that the leader would have to remind him of his duties.

            The car suddenly turned onto an exit, tires shrieking in protest, the lead car not noticing that they had disappeared.  The driver turned the car to the left, stopping the car abruptly under the highway overpass, and nearly spilling the gunman onto the floor.  He got out of the front seat, opened the rear passenger door, and searched the dead security guard for his keys.  He found them, and removed the handcuffs from the gunman.  "This is the last time that I'll assist you," said the leader, "If you fail again, you won't live to work for us again."

            "I understand." he replied.

            The leader got into a waiting car, driving back onto the exit the way he had come, leaving the gunman to find his own way back.

 

 

 

###  Chapter 13

 

 

#### ;U.S. Army Chemical Disposal Project 

Pueblo, Colorado

March 27 - 12:15 p.m.

 

 

            As the tour of the incinerator facility continued, Mulder had the opportunity to look around unobtrusively.  Since the attempt on the Governor's life, the FBI agents and other security teams had spread through the facility, looking for anything out of place, searching for anything suspicious, in case the gunman was not the only planned attempt.

            Once Mulder had identified himself to the plant personnel, he was left alone to look into normally secured areas, looking for. . . what?  He didn't know exactly what he was looking for yet, but would know it when he saw it.  The incinerator was beginning to fire up, its powerful furnaces roaring into life, waiting for its first meal.  He casually listened to the speel of the tour guide, her grey and red dress visible through the crowd.  Suddenly, a word that she spoke cut through his thoughts.  He walked back over to the tour group.

            "The chemicals will be placed, still in their plastic containers, into the holding area," she said, gesturing towards a large steel door in the wall.  "A conveyor belt will move the drums into the furnace," she said, leading the group toward a thick glass window where they could see drums on the belt.  "These sample barrels are empty, just for show," she continued. 

            "I understand that the steel drums in which the chemicals were originally contained have been disposed of.  Are they considered hazardous waste?" asked a reporter, raising his pocket recorder over the crowd to catch the answer.

            "The chemical was removed from their original steel barrels at a different location," she replied, smiling.  "The standard procedure for disposal of the drums is to wash them with water several times and crush them.  The water is then treated to remove any residual chemical and returned to use.  The barrels are stored as hazardous waste.  We hope at some point in the future we will have the technology to remelt the steel at the mill and use it in some manner." she said, pointing west to where the silhouette of tall smokestacks could be seen in the distance.  People nodded their heads.

            "Excuse me, Miss," said Mulder, raising his hand, "but I was across the room when you were discussing the catalytic converter.  How did it work again?"

            The tour guide recognized the man in the dark suit as one of the FBI agents that had saved the Governor's life, and said, smiling, "Let me start the group on watching the firing, and I'll meet you by the equipment to explain it."

            Mulder nodded, separating himself from the group, and moving to the catalytic converter.  She met him a moment later. 

            "The catalytic converter is one of the most important elements in the low temperature incinerator," she began.  "The chemical gases will be forced by the heat through this chamber," she continued, pointing up.  Mulder's eyes followed her motion.  "The catalyst, a platinum coated ceramic, will react with the chemicals, rendering them harmless." she concluded.

            "What happens if it doesn't work?" Mulder asked.

            "What do you mean?" the guide asked, brow furrowed.

            "What happens if the catalyst reacts with the chemicals adversely?" he responded.

            "Sir, the chemists and other experts have checked the composition of each and every chemical on the Senate-approved list, and I can assure you that no chemical that will be burned here will react in any way other than what is intended." She sounded quite sure of herself.

            _Yes,_ thought Mulder, _but what about the chemicals not on the approved list?_

            He was on to something, he knew.  It had something to do with X and the drums that were being unloaded at the Army Depot.  He needed to go back there tonight, before the incineration began two days from now, and he would need Scully's help.

                                                                         *  *  *

            The rain had started in earnest as Scully sprinted to her car, as quickly as her leg would permit, her hair and clothing barely getting damp.  She was surprised at how rapidly the storm had moved in, the black clouds rolling across the landscape, bringing lightning and heavy rain.  She started the car, immediately turning on the headlights and windshield wipers.  The previously grey road was suddenly transformed to shiny black, as she drove on the interstate back toward Pueblo.

            She turned the radio on, finding a light rock station.  As she reached highway speed, the sound from the storm forced her to turn the radio up.

            She was almost halfway there when she realized that she was shivering.  A cold wind was pushing through the vents, and she turned on the heater.  Unlike Mulder, she drove the speed limit except in case of an emergency.  Because of the rain, she could see no need to travel faster tonight.  Cars passed her in the left lane, sending sprays of water into her windshield.  She turned the wipers up to full until the dirty spray had been removed.

            She saw a road sign that identified an upcoming rest area, and she thought briefly that she should stop.  Another car pulled into the left lane, intending to pass, and she prepared to move the wipers up to high again.  The car passed, and her finger started to twitch the lever, until she realized that no spray had come from the tires of the passing vehicle.  She realized that the cold wind she felt had caused the rain on the road to ice over.  She let her foot off the accelerator to slow down.  She hoped that other people would realize that it had become icy.  _Only a few more miles to go_ , she thought.

            A black 4-wheel drive truck with jacked up tires came up quickly behind her, seeming impatient that she was traveling at such a slow speed.  It quickly pulled into the left lane, and Scully held her breath.  It didn't slide.  It passed her with a roar, easily 20 miles an hour faster than her.  The truck suddenly slammed on its brakes as the rear quarter panel was abreast of her fender, and the truck started to skid.  It slid into her lane, forcing her to crank her steering wheel violently to the right to avoid being hit.  She could feel the car go out of control, the brakes and steering wheel useless.  She slid sideways, and the headlights revealed to her the rapidly approaching gully off to her right.  She hoped she had rented the model with an airbag, as her hands gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles were white.

                                                                         *  *  *

            It was over in a moment, the airbag releasing on cue as the car skidded to a stop.  Scully shook her head, trying to clear it.  She had been certain that she would hit the gully, and wondered why she didn't.  The rain had stopped, and light snow had begun to fall.  She opened the car door, and, using a penlight that was on her keychain, checked the landscape around her.  She was glad that she had the foresight to point the light down, as well.  She had hit the gully after all.  The car was straddling the gully, the front wheels on one side, the back wheels on the other.  She was relieved, but knew that the car would remain where it was until a tow truck could come for it.

            She got her cellular phone out of her bag, and opened it.  There was no comforting green light, and no display information.  She realized that the batteries must have died.  She should have replaced them when she was at the motel, or at least grabbed a spare for her purse.  Frowning and berating herself for her own carelessness, Scully cautiously lowered herself into the gully, being careful not to move the car out of position.  She scaled the muddy walls of the gully onto the side of the road, her weakened calf muscles protesting.  Climbing was no easy task while carrying her bag and her valuables from the car.  She had no intention of giving thieves an excuse to take her things.  She was now past the rest stop, but remembered that there was a large truck stop just a mile or so down the road.  She started walking, quickly becoming soaked to the skin from the snow and passing cars.  She doubted that anyone would see her in the rain, and wearing dark clothes.

            She had only traveled about a quarter of a mile when she saw a white car flash past her, and then pull over, yellow warning lights on top of the car starting to flash, as it began to back up.  She moved closer to it, seeing the reflective strip spelling out "State Patrol" on the back of the car. 

            She gratefully opened the passenger door, feeling the warm air from the car hit her near-frozen face and fingers.

            "You definitely look like you need a ride," said a dark haired man in a trooper uniform.  "Hop in."

            Scully got in, and said, "Thanks for stopping.  I was afraid that I would have to walk all the way to the truck stop."

            "That's what we're here for, Ma'am," he said, smiling, "to protect and serve.  You really looked like you needed protecting.  Most people have coats with them in weather like this.  It's probably only about ten degrees out there with the wind chill.  How did you come to be out here?"

            "My car went off the road back a quarter mile or so.  If you could give me a ride to the truck stop, I can call an auto club to come get me." said Scully, still shivering.  She had gratefully accepted the thermos of coffee that the trooper offered, the cup beginning to warm her stiff fingers.  No cream for the coffee, but beggars can't be choosers.

            "I doubt you would have made it to the truck stop before hypothermia set in,"  said the trooper, grimly.  "It's probably the worst danger of weather like this.  It's awful easy to take the warm weather for granted and forget that it's still mostly winter at this elevation." said the trooper.

            "I have been properly chastised," said Scully, guiltily.  "I promise to carry a down coat with me in the future."

            They drove the rest of the way to the truck stop, and Scully told the trooper her name and that she was with the FBI.  The trooper said that he was always happy to help out another branch of law enforcement.

            The patrol car pulled into the brightly lit parking lot of the truck stop, and stopped in front of the door.  His handsome face smiled as she got out of the car, "Try to be a little more careful in the future Ma'am," he said as a trucker came out of the entrance to the restaurant. 

            "I will, and thank you again," said Scully, returning his smile and shutting the door.

            "Oh, and Agent Scully," said the trooper, opening the power window near her only a fraction to avoid the snow from entering.

            "Yes," she said, turning and facing the window, still smiling.

            Her smile froze on her face.

            The trooper's face had undergone a complete transformation.  His eyes were cold; calculating, and his face revealed no emotion.  His voice was filled with menace as he said, "Your inquiry has taken you into areas where you are not welcome.  I would suggest that your future ability to drive would best be served by stopping your investigation into matters that do not concern you and returning to Washington."  With that said, he shut the window, and drove across the parking lot and onto the highway.

            Scully felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.  She had a feeling that somewhere down the road, the man that just gave her a ride would trade his squad car for a black, 4-wheel drive truck with jacked up tires. 

                                                                         *  *  *

            Mulder was growing worried.  It was unlike Scully to be this late without calling.  He was afraid that trouble had found her, like it had found him moments ago.  He knew that X was involved, but had thought that X was unaware of his and Scully's presence.  That illusion had been shattered in a twinkling.

            As he stared out into the night, the heavy snowflakes coming down like sloppy rain, he remembered the icy feeling that came over him as he felt the familiar hand grab his shoulder as he walked from his room, instantly, and expertly, finding the nerves in his neck that prevented Mulder from turning to face his visitor.

            "Agent Mulder," said X, by way of greeting.  "As always, don't try to turn around."

            "I don't know why this game still amuses you," said Mulder coldly, wincing at the pain as X dug his fingers deeper into the nerve, "I already know what you look like."

            "Amusement has no place in my line of work," replied X, easing his grip slightly.  "The less you know about me, the safer for your career and your life."

            "What do you want?" asked Mulder, hoping to terminate this interview as quickly as possible.

            "What I want is immaterial," said X.  "On the other hand, what my employers want is for you to discontinue your investigation into matters that don't concern you."

            "I believe that the matters I'm investigating are essential to finding the truth.  I'm not interested in what you and/or your employers want," said Mulder, icily.  "Trust me, under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be within a mile of any operation you were involved in.  However, the death of the engineer, of which you no doubt are aware, was caused by exposure to . . ." began Mulder.

            "Listen to me, Agent Mulder," said X, his voice filled with deadly menace, "I don't have the time nor the inclination to listen to your wild theories or rationalizations.  Stop your investigation now . . . or risk the consequences.  I cannot continue to protect you or Agent Scully if you persist in this line of inquiry." 

            "How exactly have you been protecting us?" asked Mulder, with a short sarcastic laugh.

            There was a brief silence.

            X's voice sounded surprised as he responded, "Both you and Agent Scully are still alive, Agent Mulder, and your movements are, so far, unrestricted.  I have advised my associates that you are not to be harmed, but you are being watched.  I cannot guarantee that the others with me will continue to submit to my whims."

            His voice dropped to a harsh whisper.  "I'm quite aware that you were watching us the other night.  I allowed you to do so then, and allow you to continue now because I know that you seek the truth.  But, as your search begins to interfere with my duties, I must draw a line.  You'll have to decide in your own mind if the price of crossing that line is worth the truth you seek."

            Then he was gone, disappearing into the shadows without a sound.

            The pressure was suddenly released from the nerves in Mulder's neck, and he felt lightheaded and ready to vomit.  He sagged against the door of his room, feeling his legs nearly give way under him.  He would have to learn that neck trick.  He felt like he had been mugged by Spock on _Star Trek_.

            And so he stood on the balcony at the motel watching the driving snow, his stomach in knots.  He hoped that Scully hadn't found herself a victim to a more serious warning.  Mulder felt no particular need to defend or protect Scully.  He had absolute faith in his partner's ability to defend herself from both physical and mental attacks.  He just wished he knew where she was.

            Just then, a 18-wheeler pulled into the parking lot of the motel.  The passenger door opened, and a familiar figure began to climb out.

            "Thanks for the ride, John," said Scully.  "I'll be okay now."

            "No problem, Dana," said the driver, John.  "Give me a call when you get back to Washington, and we'll have lunch.  Take care."

            Scully shut the cab door and climbed to the ground.  The semi pulled back out onto the slushy highway, heading east.  Mulder took stock of her condition as she climbed the steps to where he was standing.  Her red-gold hair was caked with mud and plastered to her head.  There was mud on her face, her clothing, and her bag.  Her clothing was soaked with snow, and stuck to her legs and back.  She strongly resembled a drowned cat.  She was humming a tune that seemed familiar, but he couldn't place the name.

            "Dare I ask?" asked Mulder as she reached the spot where he stood, his voice filled with equal parts of concern and amusement.

            "It's a long story, Mulder." said Scully, sounding bone-weary, but still humming the little tune.

            "Well, you can tell me about it while you change.  We have a quiet little night job to do." said Mulder.  She really did look terrible.

            She looked at him, stunned, eyes blazing, "The only thing I intend to change into, Agent Mulder, is a flannel nightgown, immediately after a long, hot shower.  I have no intention of going with you on a 'quiet little night job'." she said, turning her key in the lock of her room.

            "Scully," said Mulder, with rising anxiety, "Just hear me out.  I have a feeling that something very bad is about to happen . . . soon."

            The tone in his voice made Scully turn.  She searched his face.  He wore an expression now familiar to her after years of working with him.  The expression said that the world as she knew it was about to change forever, and only the two of them together could fix the problem.

            "All right," she said, with a deep sigh, "Come in while I shower and tell me what you've learned."

            Through the bathroom door, shouting over the shower, he told her about X's visit, about the incinerator trip, and about the platinum catalytic converter.  She, in turn, told him about her lack of success with destroying the protein, about the results of the lab tests on the urine and the fabric, and about her encounter with the truck/patrol car driver. 

            He explained his theory that the black drums that were being unloaded at the Depot by X and his people had something to do with the protein.

            "So," explained Mulder, "If I'm right, the nerve gas that you found in the urine of Toby Granger and Kim Delaney is the same substance in those barrels.  How that relates to the protein, I don't know.  The fact that the incinerator uses a platinum catalyst, and we found platinum at the accident scene has some bearing as well, I'm sure.  We'll only know once we get a sample.  Now,", he mused, "We can't exactly walk up to the Depot and ask the guards to give us a sample of whatever's in those barrels to run tests on . . ."

            Scully examined her body as she showered and listened to Mulder.  She found no bruises other than her leg, which had taken a further beating.  She was going to have to find an elastic bandage to shore up that muscle if she was going to finish this assignment.  "Which means that we're somehow going to have to get a sample without asking, right?"

            Mulder grinned.  "You catch on quick.  The question now, is how?  You're the scientist, Scully.  How do we get a sample of a deadly liquid in a sealed drum, without exposing ourselves to it?"

            Scully came out of the bathroom, steam rolling out after her, drying her hair with a towel.  Her quilted robe felt warm against her skin.  "I've been working on that.  We'll need to stop by the hospital.  I think I can get the equipment I need there.  We'll need gas masks, though, and I don't have access to any."

            Mulder stood up, and walked toward the window.  He bent the slats of the mini-blinds down with a finger, and looked out.  The snow had stopped, and the world was covered in white.  The highway just beyond the parking lot was wet, but clear of snow.  "I have to assume that appropriate equipment is available at the Depot.  While I was out there, I saw a way to get into the building.  Once inside, we'll split up.  You try to find the drums that I marked with this," he said, holding up a red marker, "and I'll find an equipment locker.  I don't know what sort of security they have inside the building, but keep your head down."

            Scully nodded in response.  She was rubbing lotion on her arms.  The water here was harder than back home, and was drying her skin out.

            "By the way, who's the trucker that brought you back?" Mulder asked, turning to face her.

            "His name's John Jacob.  He's a Federal Marshall investigating port-of-entry fraud.  We met at the truck stop.  Luckily, he was able to give me a ride without blowing his cover."

            Something clicked in Mulder's brain.  He had suddenly recognized the tune that Scully had been humming.  He groaned, shutting his eyes tightly and covering his face with his hands.

            "If I didn't know that you were a Girl Scout before, I certainly do now," said Mulder, his face showing visible pain.

            "What?" asked Scully.

            "You didn't really hum that tune while you were riding in the truck, did you?" asked Mulder, hopefully.  "If you did, you probably set the Bureau back twenty years."

            Scully realized that she had been caught, and looked at him sheepishly.  "No, I didn't hum out loud.  I just couldn't get the song out of my head," she said.

            Mulder shook his head in amazement.  While it had been, and continues to be, a traditional Girl Scout and Boy Scout campfire song, 'John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith', is not exactly a ditty intended to win friends and influence people, especially people with the name, 'John Jacob'.

            "See," said Scully, "Now you've started me up again.  I'll be humming that damn song in my head the rest of the night."

            "Serves you right.  It's just retribution for thinking of it in the first place." replied Mulder, handing her a black turtleneck that matched his own, and black stirrup pants.  "Get dressed.  We have places to go."

 

 

### Chapter 14

 

 

St. Mary's Hospital

Pueblo, Colorado

March 28 - 12:15 a.m.

 

 

            It was after midnight when Mulder and Scully arrived at the hospital.  They had waited intentionally until David Angeletti was off duty.  He would ask too many questions.  While Mulder waited in the car, Scully went in through the emergency room entrance.  Since she had been there several times before, she had no problem gaining access to the lab facilities, merely flashing her badge to the nurse on duty, who responded with a nod and a smile.

            The lab technician on duty, Ray, was the same one that she had worked with during the autopsy.

            "Agent Scully," Ray said with a smile, looking slightly surprised, "You're out late.  What brings you to my home away from home?" he said, his tired eyes showing how long he had been on duty.

            "Actually, two things," said Scully, "First, do you have an elastic bandage?  My leg has really been bothering me lately."

            "This is a hospital.  Of course we do," he said, stepping out of the room briefly, and returning with a rolled bandage in a sterile package. 

            She sat down, raised her pant leg over her calf, and expertly wrapped the bandage around the injured leg.  The bandage constricted slightly as she sealed the end with the accompanying clips, and she felt some of the throbbing ease.

            Ray Stanton watched her with bemusement.  He sipped his coffee, sitting on the counter next to her, and said, eyes twinkling, "You could have gotten a bandage at the local drug store.  What are you really here for?"

            Scully felt a flush rising into her cheeks.  She breathed deeply, calming herself, and said, "Secondly, I need a favor."

            "Which is?" he asked, taking another sip of coffee.

            "I need a heavy duty syringe with a screw on cap and a spinal tap needle."

            Ray raised his eyebrows.  "Not your average request for . . .", he said, looking at his watch, "nearly one in the morning.  Should I even bother to ask why?"

            "Not if you want an answer," she said, somewhat sheepishly.  "It's very important, though.  I'll owe you one." she continued, hopefully.

            "Do I get to pick the 'one'?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly.

            Scully laughed, feeling a little punchy.  She liked the people here.  "Maybe," she said slyly, responding to the tease.

            Now Ray began to laugh, as well.  "Well, if nothing else, you've brightened an otherwise dull evening."  He stood up, walked to a locked cabinet, produced a key, and opened it with a slight flourish.

            "There you are, my dear," he said with a sweeping bow, quickly standing up, "Take what you will, but leave me my heart," he said in a melodramatic manner, the back of his hand pressed against his brow.

            Scully responded with her best Scarlett O'Hara accent, batting her eyes, "Oh, thank you, kind sir.  Now the South may rise again."

            They looked at each other and burst out laughing.  They laughed until they were in tears.  The nurse peeked in the doorway, and shook her head.  Night duty was often strange.

            Scully was still chuckling as she brought a large sack of items out to the waiting car.  She had felt like a kid in a candy store.  She was sure that Ray wondered what on earth she was doing.

            "You were in there long enough.  Any problems?" asked Mulder, shifting the car into Drive.

            "No, no problems," said Scully, bursting into laughter again.

            "Care to let me in on the joke?" asked Mulder, amused.

            "Private joke.  You wouldn't get it." responded Scully.  Mulder just shook his head as Scully continued to giggle.

                                                                         *  *  *

            They arrived at the Depot and parked the car out of sight of lights.  Scully had regained her composure, and had tucked her hair up under a black knit cap and put on black gloves, so that only her face revealed her presence in the darkness.  They moved in unison, communicating by expressions and gestures.  They had been a team long enough that they could anticipate each other's actions.  They found a concealed spot at a slightly higher elevation where they could observe the front gate, and assumed prone positions.  They breathed shallowly in the cold air, so that only a limited amount of steam rose with each breath.  Mulder brought out a small tin of black greasepaint, and they quickly and silently applied it to their faces, creating lines and shadows that would help camouflage them further.

            Scully brought a pair of small, high-powered binoculars up to her eyes.  She moved forward slightly and raised her upper body on her elbows.  She whispered a commentary of what she observed to Mulder.

            "There are two guards patrolling the perimeter," she said, "One inside the fence, and one outside.  No dogs.  The perimeter is lit with flood lights about 100 feet out.  I don't think the guards are regular army," she said, "They look more like Special Forces.  They're both armed.  It's hard to tell the make, but they could either be Beretta M-P5s or Uzis.  Probably full automatic."

            Mulder knew most of this from his previous expedition out here.  He listened silently.

            "And . . . my, my!" she said significantly, eyebrows raised.  She turned her head to Mulder.  "They're fitted with flash suppressors."

            "Silenced full autos?  On guard duty?" responded Mulder, pursing his lips.  He hadn't noticed that last time.  "Well, now, isn't that interesting?!"

            Scully returned to her observations.  "The guards are good.  They stay opposite of one another as they circle, keeping each other in view."

            Mulder responded grimly, "They're good, but we're better.  What is their total time for one circuit, and are there any obstructions in their line of sight of each other?"

            Scully checked her watch before glassing the area slowly.  She watched silently as the guards made one full revolution of the site, and checked her watch again.  "Circuit time is 1 minute, 12 seconds.  Only one building separates them," she finally said.  "They're out of sight of each other for about 18 seconds, maybe a little more."  She put down the binoculars and eased back to a prone position next to Mulder.  "We can do it, but we'll have to take them both out simultaneously.  We don't know how many more are inside.  We can't risk raising an alarm."

            Mulder nodded slowly.  "I had a chance to look over the terrain when I was here this morning.  There's a small gully off to our left that will shield you from sight.  I didn't have time to walk the gully, though.  You'll have to be careful of obstacles under the snow.  Generally, there are large cactus out here, and probably animal dens."

            Scully grimaced.

            Mulder continued, "There'll be no cover for me.  I'll just have to go slow.  When you reach the edge of the fence, wait until you can see me.  We'll move into position together.  If there's trouble, try to make it back to the car and leave."

            Scully started to protest, "Mulder . . ."

            Mulder silenced her with a look.  "X told me that his people have instructions not to kill us, but we don't know how long that will last.  One of us needs to continue the investigation.  You know that."

            She nodded.  "And if I'm caught?" she asked.

            "The same rule applies.  I'll come back for you as quickly as I can.  I hope you'll do the same." he said quietly.

            Scully just looked at him.  No response was necessary.

            They checked their watches.  Scully's was a few minutes different and she took a moment to synchronize her's with Mulder's.  The correctness of the time wasn't important, just so long as they were the same. 

            She put the mini-binoculars back in her pack, alongside the equipment for removing a sample of the liquid.  She examined the pack again, nodding to herself as she silently checked the contents.  Mulder stood by as she went through the ritual.  He knew that she had checked the contents several times since they had gotten out of the car, but approved of her thoroughness.  She found the large plastic syringe with removable cap, and the long, thick needle normally used for obtaining spinal fluid.  The needle was still in its hard plastic holder.  She would not put the syringe together until the last minute.  She moved the binoculars aside and saw the penlight.  She didn't know what the lighting would be once inside the warehouse, and wanted to be prepared. 

            She removed the penlight from the pack, turned her back toward the fenced area, covered the lens tightly with her hand, and twisted the end cap with the other.  She could see a reddish glow play through her hand.  _Good_ , she thought, _the batteries are okay._   The warehouse was no place to find out that the batteries were dead.  However, remembering her previous experience in forgetting a spare battery for her phone, she had tossed a fresh pack of batteries in the small black pack, as well. 

            There was also a plastic bag containing a set of liquid resistant Tyvek coveralls, a pair of goggles, a roll of duct tape, PVC gloves, and a small disposable respirator.  If the liquid in the barrels was indeed nerve gas, they needed to be protected against spills.  If they couldn't find any gas masks, the disposable mask would do in a pinch.  Finally, her hand closed around a small .22 caliber derringer, which she removed and tucked into her sock beneath the stirrup.

            "Expecting trouble?" asked Mulder softly, looking from the derringer to her shoulder holster where her FBI issued Smith and Wesson 9mm hung silently.

            Scully smiled grimly.  "I always expect trouble.  I like having options."

            "Well, check to be sure your derringer is on safety.  We don't need you tripping and blowing a hole in your good leg." 

            Scully grimaced, and reached down, flipping the safety catch that would prevent the trigger from accidentally pulling. 

            Mulder took a moment to check his own weapon and pack.  His supplies were identical to Scully's, in case they had to split up.  And, like Scully, he carried a S&W 1056 stainless steel model automatic.  He verified that he had a full clip, and a spare loaded clip in a leg pocket.  He then patted his hip pocket, where a folding knife with a razor edge was stored.  He also liked to have options.

            Scully completed the inventory of her pack, and slipped her arms into the straps.  She cinched the stomach strap tightly around her slim waist, and turned from side to side quickly several times.  Mulder did the same.  There was no sound of the contents shifting.

            Mulder put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed slightly.  "Good luck, partner," he said.  "See you in a few minutes."

            Scully smiled, and reached her hand up to briefly rest on his.  "Let's do it."

            They moved their separate ways, heads low, into the darkness.

                                                                         *  *  *

            Mulder headed east toward the fence, circling right, while Scully circled left.  She entered the gully quietly.  Scattered clouds still hung over her, but the moon was bright.  Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see shapes of rocks and plants in the gully.  She slowly looked around as she got her bearings.  The gully was wide and shallow.  It was probably was a riverbed during runoff.  There were grasses growing sporadically across its width, and, as Mulder had said, cactus dotted the ground.  The gully was just deeper than she was tall.  It would hide her well.  The sides of the gully were rounded and slightly undercut at the lip.  It would be difficult to climb back out without noise.  She would have to pick her route carefully.

            She shuddered as she imagined the gully full of water.  It would be a tremendous force, whitecaps breaking over the banks, thousands of gallons rushing at breakneck speed. 

            She would have given her eye teeth for a pair of night-vision goggles right now.  Unfortunately, in order to requisition them, they would have had to tell their superiors why they needed them.  In order to buy a pair, she would have had to pawn her car.

            She picked her way carefully, watching the snowy ground in front of her for evidence of any sudden depressions that could mean a nasty spill.  A sharp movement to her left caused her to suddenly freeze in place.  Keeping her body still, she turned her head slowly toward the sound.  A young doe looked at her with wide eyes, deciding whether to bolt away.  Scully realized that the doe must have been bedding down in the gully and she spooked it.  Scully decided it was best to ignore the doe.  The deer would make her exit silently, and circle back to her bed. 

            The snow was deep in spots, where rocks had interrupted the flow of the wind, and allowed it to settle.  Other places were dry, and the frozen grass made muted cracking sounds under her feet.  She moved softly like a deer, taking a few quick steps and stopping to listen.  She heard a coyote in the distance.  It would be easy to forget her mission, easy to just wander out here in the cold night, listening to the night sounds.  But then she remembered Roberto Lopez.  Her fists clenched.  Nobody should have to die like that. 

            She knew that the brain lived for several minutes after the body died.  What must have gone through his mind?  Did thoughts of friends and family fill his remaining minutes, or were his last seconds of comprehension filled with terror, knowing there was no hope?  David was right.  It was easy to forget the 'who'.  This. . . thing, whatever it was, was without feeling, without the ability to know who it killed.  It must be stopped.  It was up to her and Mulder to make sure that the tragic death that took Lopez did not ever claim anyone else.  She could see the lights of the Depot to her right.  The gully was beginning to swing north, and she would have to leave the safety of cover soon.  She wondered how Mulder was faring.

            Mulder was cold.  He chided himself that had he had any common sense, it would have occurred to him that he would be on his belly for most of the distance.  He should have worn a water resistant shirt.  He was soaked to the skin, and would probably have frostbite before the night was over.  The cold wind had already made his skin numb.   His hip still hurt, and his headache was coming back.  All in all, it was not one of his better nights.  He moved quickly, half crouched, across the prairie, flattening himself against the ground each time the guards came within sight.  He tried to plan where he would land when he dropped to a prone position, but twice now, small cactus, different than the tall yuccas that he could see, had gouged his skin through the fabric.  He could only move a few seconds at a time, during the time the guards had their backs to him.  During those seconds, though, he covered a lot of ground.  He ran seven miles each day, and swam at the pool whenever he could.  He could move fast when he needed to.          He heard a coyote sing to the moon.  Scully was probably already in position and was waiting for him.  He couldn't see her, but then, she was good at her job.  He shouldn't be able to see her until she was ready to be seen.  He was breathing hard when he reached the planned location near a bushy sagebrush, and spent several seconds calming himself and planning his next move.  He and Scully hadn't made any plan as to who would take out which guard.  The guard inside the fence would be more difficult than the one outside.  He would wait until Scully made herself known. 

            Scully had found a location near the barrier where the gully had undercut the soil beneath the fence.  It was an easy matter to enlarge the hole so she could fit through.  When she had completed this task, she backtracked slightly and waited for Mulder to appear.  She took off her backpack and removed the binoculars.  She scanned the area where Mulder should have ended up, but the glare from the lights was such that she couldn't focus properly in the dark.  _Another good reason for night-vision goggles_ , she thought.

            The guard was beginning to walk past her.  She held her breath, and pressed her body back against the cut-out gully.  The guard passed her by without notice.  She decided to wait for the next revolution, and decided also on a risky move.

            She took off her cap.  Her hair was in a bun at the back of her neck.  She wiped off most of the greasepaint from her face with the back of her backpack.  As she mentally prepared herself for what was to come, she scrambled up from the gully to the prairie floor, with no sound.  She stood silently, making sure that the guard hadn't heard.  He hadn't.  He was just coming around again, and she stood silently in the darkness.  He didn't see her.  Her body shook from concentration as she approached the guard from the rear.

            She closed her eyes, and when she reopened them, they were steel blue and hard as iron.  Her stance resembled a general reviewing his troops.  She hoped this would work.  She would only have one chance, and it would have to be perfect.  She left her weapon holstered.

            As the guard passed her, she stalked out of the darkness toward him.

            "You are on report, soldier!" she said.  Her voice had a commanding edge, although she spoke quietly.

            The guard's back straightened by reflex, and he turned toward the voice.  He saw a small woman, wearing clothing nearly identical to his own, her face showing the remains of camouflage paint.  He started to raise his gun, but stopped when he saw her dismissive gesture.

            "It's too late to save your sorry ass now!  Lower your weapon and stand at attention!" she demanded.

            He hesitated. 

            "NOW!" 

            His training took over and he set his weapon on the ground and stood at attention. The woman was in front of him now, stalking back and forth like a tiger.  He didn't know who she was, but she was definitely command.  He saw now that she wore a sidearm.

            "If I had been the enemy, mister, you would already be dead!  While you've admiring the scenery, I've been walking around the perimeter for nearly ten minutes!  TEN MINUTES!"  He looked down at her.  "Eyes front, soldier." she said, her blue eyes boring into his.  He obeyed.  She was over a foot shorter than him.  With his eyes staring straight ahead, he could no longer see her.  He could only hear her drill sergeant voice.

            "Do you know why you are on report, soldier?" she asked.  The guard wasn't sure whether it was a rhetorical question.  He kept silent.  "DO YOU?" she repeated, poking him in the chest with her finger.  "And keep your voice down.  Your partner's not in any better shape than you are right now.  I don't want him getting any advance notice of this review."

            Scully was starting to enjoy this.  She had watched many times as her recently-deceased father, a Navy captain, had dressed down soldiers under his command.  She was pleased that his spirit was with her now.

            "No, sir, I mean ma'am, I mean, uh . . " stuttered the soldier.  She had shaken him badly.

            She looked up at him, her words biting like daggers, "You will address me as you would any commanding officer, soldier.  I am 'sir'!  You are NOTHING!  The Colonel sent me to review your performance," she continued.

            The guard broke into a sweat.  The Colonel!  He was in big trouble now.  He could get booted off this squad.  He stood rigidly, his eyes never wavering.  She walked around him, inspecting him as she would a particularly disgusting maggot.

            She was close enough now.  "Your performance has been pathetic!  You are on report for . . ." She shifted her weight suddenly, and brought a hard, booted foot up and sideways, planting it directly in the guard's solar plexus.  

            The guard bent forward slightly, stunned, his jaw dropping.  He knew now that this was wrong, but couldn't get enough breath to yell to his partner, or act.  She immediately stepped forward--

            "Dereliction . . ." and delivered a solid punch to the guard's open jaw.  His head slammed backward, the nerves behind his jaw shutting down from the force of the blow, and he fell to the ground unconscious.

            ". . . of duty!" she concluded, standing over him, shaking slightly with nervous energy.

            "God, the things I do for my country," she said.  She quickly and expertly removed the guard from sight, and used pre-torn strips of duct tape to cover his mouth and bind his hands and feet.  She unceremoniously dumped the comatose guard in the ravine, and returned to the spot where she had made the entrance under the fence.  She had to squeeze through the small opening.  She removed her pack and dragging it after her.  There was no way that Mulder would be able to make it under the fence at this spot.  She would have to open the gate.  She rapidly moved across the compound, staying in the shadows, watching for the second guard.

            Mulder couldn't see Scully anywhere in the glare of the overhead lights, but knew if she was there, she either had already, or was about to dispatch the outside guard.  He moved closer, wondering how to remove the inside guard.

                                                                          * * *

            The guard inside the fence had been out of visual contact with his partner for several seconds.  When the obstruction ended, he instinctively looked across to where his partner should be.  He wasn't in sight yet.  Feeling uneasy, he stopped moving and stood silently, waiting for his partner to reappear.  When he didn't, the guard began to search his own area for signs of intrusion.  He saw movement to his left, and quickly moved to a place where he couldn't be seen, weapon raised.  He saw an arm, clad in black, appear, and thought that it might be his partner.  He was wrong.  An intruder was just outside the fence!  He crouched forward slightly, and bent down on one leg.  He raised his rifle until the telescopic sight was at his eye, and waited for his opportunity to fire.

 

 

### Chapter 15

 

#### ;U.S. Army Chemical Disposal Project 

Pueblo, Colorado

March 28 - 2:12 a.m.

 

            As Mulder cleared the obstruction, he moved, half-crouched, outside of the circle of light.  He had expected to see the guard slightly in front of him, but the guard was nowhere to be seen.  _Had Scully already taken him out_?  he wondered.  He moved forward toward the fence again, but stopped short as he saw a flash of light to his right.  A rifle sight!  He spun quickly, removing his weapon from its holster in one smooth movement, as he dropped to the ground, face-down, and rolled.  As he began to move, he saw another movement, one that the guard didn't see.  The last thing Mulder saw as he commenced rolling was Scully, spinning in a perfectly executed 360 degree hook kick that caught the guard in the side of the head. 

            Mulder got back to his feet and walked over to where Scully stood over the inert guard, tearing strips of tape.

            "About time you got here," he said easily.  He realized that he had been lucky she was there.

            "Mind your manners, or I'll wake him up and give him back his popgun." she said, teasingly.  She secured the guard in the same manner as the first, and, taking the guard's weapon, identical to the one that was now slung across her back, tossed it high, over the fence, into Mulder's waiting hands.

            After dragging the inert guard to a place hidden from view, she met Mulder near the front gate.  There was a control panel on both the inside and outside of the fence to open the gate.  Scully examined the panel and discovered that the mechanism required a card key to be swiped through the machine to unlock the gate.  She quickly returned to the unconscious guard and searched his clothing.  She found the card key, and, returning to the control panel, quickly swiped the card through the mechanism.  Both she and Mulder saw several lights flash on the panel and heard an audible click.  They looked expectantly toward the fence, but nothing happened.  They looked confusedly at each other for a moment, and then Scully looked back down to the control panel and grimaced.  Mulder chuckled.  The card key had merely opened a panel on the control face, and Scully now saw a new feature, the outline of a human hand, glowing slightly.  Both she and Mulder recognized the additional security feature.  The authorized person must place his hand on the panel for scanning.  If the fingerprints matched that in the computer records, the gate would open.  Scully also realized that her own handprint would not suffice.  Mulder had chuckled because he knew that Scully would now be required to drag the unconscious guard to the panel and place his hand on the panel to open the gate.

            "There must be an easier way," said Scully, with an exasperated breath.

            "Hey, wish I could help," said Mulder on the other side of the fence, hands raised in front of him in mock helplessness, still chuckling.

            "Oh, don't worry," replied Scully evilly, "you'll get to help.  You'll get to drag him over here for the trip out.  With any luck, he'll be awake by then.  I doubt he'll be very helpful."

            Mulder instantly stopped chuckling.

            He waited silently, watching for any movement that would indicate a third sentry, as Scully reached the guard.  She turned the guard onto his back, and, reaching under his armpits, began to slowly drag the guard backwards toward the front gate.  Her leg was throbbing again, protesting the constant demands placed on it tonight.  She knew she was probably setting her therapy back a week with each passing minute.  She was sweating by the time she had moved the guard the several dozen feet to the control panel.  She realized that she didn't have a knife to remove the duct tape. 

            Mulder, seeing the problem, said "Psst,"

            She looked over to see him remove a knife from his back pocket.  She smiled gratefully as he tossed it over the fence.  She caught it neatly, and removed the tape from his hands.  The guard, thankfully, remained unconscious.  She twisted his body and lifted it slightly, until his hand could reach the panel.  She was careful not to accidentally allow her hand to come into contact with the sensor panel.  The additional hand signature would probably set off an alarm or, at the least, lock the mechanism. 

            The guard's hand pressed against the sensor, and the machine, with a hum, blinked a green light.  The gate opened smoothly.

            Mulder came inside the gate shut it behind him.  There was no sense in alerting outsiders that there was anything amiss. He and Scully then re-taped the guard's hands and dragged him back to his place of concealment.  They found a piece of sagebrush and wiped down the area to obscure where they had moved the guard to and from the front gate through the sand.  Mulder picked up the knife and returned it to his pocket.  Scully looked at her watch.  _It's getting late; or early; depending on how you look at it,_ she thought.  They had better speed up the process.

            They quickly moved to the edge of the grey, cinder block building and flattened themselves against the wall near an exterior door.

            "So, now what?" whispered Scully.  "How do we get in?"

            "Watch and learn," murmured Mulder, grinning.  He bent down and felt around the bottom edge of the door.  His finger found a indentation and he swung a false block to the side.  Scully watched in amazement as he reached inside the brick and plucked a key ring from a small hook.

            "You've got to be kidding!" she said quietly, stunned.  "After all the security at the gate, they left the key under the mat?"

            "They probably figured that nobody would make it this far," said Mulder.  "Luckily for us, when I was here the other night, I happened to notice one of the men retrieve the key from here."

            The key ring held four different sized keys.  He examined the lock briefly and found that it was a double-keyed deadbolt of standard manufacture.  He glanced at the keys on the ring and, choosing one with the same manufacturer's name, inserted it in the lock.  The key turned easily and he opened the door a crack.

            They looked through the doorway, weapons drawn.  They could see no movement inside the building.  Mulder reached down and closed the false brick until he heard a click. 

            Mulder opened the door just far enough for Scully to slip inside.  He watched the area carefully, weapon ready, until she was concealed inside.  When she was in place, she nodded to him.  They repeated the process, with Scully now watching the area, until Mulder joined her.  He took a moment to re-lock the exterior door and put the keys in his pocket.

            The warehouse was dark.  They both looked into the darkness and listened for nearly a full minute.  Neither of them could see any movement nor hear any sound.  There were no windows in the building, and they glanced at each other, deciding that it would probably be safe to turn on their flashlights.

            They both gasped as their flashlights revealed row after row of black plastic drums.  Hundreds upon hundreds of rows, each barrel identical to the one next to it.  Mulder felt a knot growing in his stomach as he realized that each drum probably contained enough concentrated nerve gas to wipe out a small town. 

            "My God," whispered Scully.  "Are all of these the same?"

            "Joe told me that they're burning everything from mustard gas to nerve gas to solid rocket fuel." Mulder said quietly, his voice sounding loud to him in the utter stillness.  "I don't know what's in them all.  We only want the ones that were brought during X's operation."  Mulder's mind flashed back to the night he was here, and he stood silently as his photographic mind replayed the scene for him.  Scully watched him, waiting for a sign. 

            "Here, follow me," he said after a moment, moving into the darkness, with only his small flashlight to guide him.

            Scully moved after him, stepping where he stepped, zig-zagging through the barrels until he stopped several rows in.  There was just enough room to stand between each row.

            "A lot of these barrels are new," he said, "but I think this is about the spot where they were positioning them the other night.  Probably the easiest way to find the ones I marked is to shine your light near the floor and look for a splotch of red.  Start here and move down each side of every row for about five or six rows, in that direction," he said, pointing to his left.

            Scully nodded.

             "I'll check the walls for lockers that might have gas masks.  If you find the right one, signal me and I'll come back.  If I don't have the masks yet, we can use the disposable ones." said Mulder in a whisper.

            "I'll be watching the floor, so, if you could, watch my back," Scully said quietly.

            "I always do--among other things," he said with a small smile.

            He retreated quickly, before she could respond.  She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

            He saw a row of eight lockers, and moved toward them.  He could see Scully's flashlight moving quickly along the line of drums, stopping briefly every time she examined the sides of a drum.  He reached the lockers and found, to his annoyance, that each one had a padlock.  Probably employee lockers, he thought. An idea struck him.  _What the heck, I might as well try it_ , he thought, reaching for the key ring in his pocket.  He found a small padlock key on the ring, and tried it in the first lock.  It didn't open.  He tried the key on each subsequent lock.  When he reached the sixth locker, the key turned and the lock fell open.  _Well, what do you know?!_ he mused.  He silently removed the lock and opened the door.  He smiled broadly.  Inside the locker were a medical kit and four full face respirators with accompanying air packs in harnesses.  _This is almost too easy.  We must be living right,_ he thought.  He wouldn't have thought that if he could have seen the dark figure in the window on the second floor, overlooking the warehouse.  The figure quietly watched them, making no move to stop their actions.

            He removed two of the masks with air packs, and shut the locker quietly.  He returned the padlock to the latch, but left it unlocked.  He saw a flash of light to his left, and turned.  Scully was signaling to him that she had found the drum he marked.

            He picked up the gas masks, checking to be sure that each one was clean and had new filters in the pack.  He then checked the air hoses and assured that they were defect-free, and returned to Scully's side. 

            He noted that she had already taken off her backpack and was slipping into the Tyvek coveralls.  She put on the PVC gloves and he assisted her by using the duct tape to fasten the coverall over the glove, making a impenetrable seal. 

            He handed her a mask, and she re-checked the mask for any defects.  Since the masks had not been specifically fitted for either of them, she checked to make sure that the mask had a tight seal against her face.  When she was satisfied that the mask was functional, she placed it over her head and Mulder helped her adjust the harness.  He took his gear from his pack and repeated the process that Scully had just completed.  She taped his gloves for him, and helped him adjust his air pack.

            The respirators were designed to provide a positive pressure of air on demand, meaning that each time Mulder breathed, the mask would provide purified air that was drawn from the room and filtered through an element in the air pack.  He could hear his breath in his ears, sounding like an echo chamber.  He had taken lessons in breathing with a gas mask in hazardous materials classes, but each time it took a moment to remember to point his exhaled breath downward, so as not to fog the plexiglass plate over his eyes.

            Scully had no difficultly remembering how to breathe, and she was pleased that this type of respirator was available.  She liked the full facepiece, which provided sealed eye protection.  She preferred the pressure-demand type of respirator since if a leak developed in the unit, the mask would automatically send a continuous flow of clean air to the facepiece, allowing the person to escape the toxic environment without being overcome.

            Scully began to fit the syringe together, making sure that the needle was twisted together with the syringe properly so there would be no leaks.  She tried the plunger several times, holding her breath so she could hear the air flow into the syringe and then escape through the long needle. 

            She used Mulder's knife again to make a small hole in the plastic lid cap, and inserted the needle into the drum.  She tried to pull on the plunger once or twice since she didn't know how full the drum was.  Each time that she only pulled air, she would push the needle down further, until, on her third try, she began to see a yellowish fluid fill the syringe.  She continued to pull on the plunger until the body of the syringe was nearly full and then removed the needle.  Mulder was waiting with a small piece of duct tape, which he quickly placed over the hole they had made.  It would be noticeable, but they would be gone by the time anyone saw the tape.

            With her gloves and mask still on, she removed the needle from the syringe, being careful not to spill any of the liquid.  Mulder handed her the syringe cap, and she screwed it tightly onto the end.  Mulder handed her another piece of duct tape, and she placed the tape over the top of the cap, ensuring that it would not accidentally come loose while they were leaving.

            She returned the used needle to its hard plastic container, and sealed the end of the container with duct tape, as well.  She visually checked her gloves and found that she had not gotten any fluid on them.  She nodded to Mulder, and, picking up their packs and oxygen tanks, stepped out of the rows of drums before they began to remove their suits.  They didn't bother to remove the tape from the sleeves.  They merely pulled their hands out of the gloves into the sleeves of the coveralls.  They left the masks on until they had completely removed the coveralls and returned them to the resealable plastic bags inside their packs. 

            Mulder motioned Scully to follow him and they brought the gas masks back to the locker.  They wiped out the condensation that had formed on the inside of the masks with a cloth that Scully produced from her side pants pocket.  Mulder locked the padlock on the locker, and they returned to where they had left their packs.

            Mulder wondered whether the warehouse had an inside door to the incinerator next door.  He also wanted to get a sample of the platinum catalyst.  He spoke to Scully briefly, and they went to search for a doorway. 

            The dark figure in the second floor window watched while they departed and then disappeared from sight.  He reappeared in a few moments, emerging through the doorway on the stairwell, wearing black clothing similar to the clothing of the other two.  He silently moved across the floor to the drum where Scully and Mulder had just taken a sample.  He inspected the drum and found the marking that Mulder had made.  He swore under his breath, silently berating the people under him that allowed the drum to be marked.  When he discussed the matter with them, his reprimand would not be so silent.

            X was curious about what the two FBI agents were looking for.  He saw no harm; yet, in allowing them to take a sample from the drum.  He was uncomfortable enough about this operation that a part of him would welcome a halt to it.

            He stepped outside of the rows of drums. 

            Mulder had said that his investigation dovetailed with X's operation.  While X did not see the connection, he was willing to concede the likelihood of it.  Mulder would not go to this much trouble to thwart the destruction of weapons that he did not feel should exist in the first place. 

            X unconsciously drummed his fingers on the wall as he thought.  Mulder was difficult to categorize.  He was a maverick, a troubled genius that had his superiors either running scared or thinking of ways to outwit him.  He was too valuable an asset in the Violent Crimes Division to allow him to quit, and too much of a danger to the hierarchy if he simply disappeared. 

            X shook his head as he walked back upstairs.  He sat down in the dark in a large executive-style chair.  He leaned back, arms behind his head.  He had told his superiors that partnering Mulder with Dana Scully would be a mistake.  They had thought that they could control her and, through her, him.  X had immediately seen her independent streak, which allowed her to do what was, in her opinion, "right", even if it went against direct orders. 

            As teams went, Mulder and Scully were a superb one, using each other's strengths to shore up their own individual weaknesses.  It was a shame that they were not available in X's own operation.  They were both creative and resourceful, and, as such, an imminent danger to X himself. 

            X had never imagined himself being in the position he was in now.  He had, for many years, simply followed orders, no matter who profited or lost, or who died.  One day he looked in the mirror and found that he had become an embarrassment to himself.  When Mulder's previous information source, known to Mulder as "Deep Throat" died, X had found himself to be the unlikely heir, carrying on the battle against deception. 

            It was unfortunate that Mulder was so bright that he frequently became a danger to himself.  He was valuable, but not that valuable.  X found it necessary to occasionally rein Mulder in, keeping him off the track of knowledge that could destroy him.  X did it to keep his own position, as well.  Deep Throat had believed that his job was secure, and he could afford to take chances.  He was wrong.  X was under no such illusions, and knew he was useless to Mulder if he was dead.  He would have to watch the two agents closely until the drums were destroyed, lest they began to interfere with forces beyond X's control.

            He heard voices, and returned to the window to watch.

            Scully was carrying a vial of white powder, the granules of which appeared to be slightly between the size of powdered sugar and granulated sugar, which she handed to Mulder.

            "Okay, now that we've got the catalyst sample," said Scully, placing the sealed glass vial in Mulder's backpack, "Why don't you tell me what it is you're looking for."

            "Not here," said Mulder, moving quickly toward the exterior door, "It's nearly dawn.  I don't want to be here when the day shift shows up."

            Scully looked at her watch, suddenly realizing how long they had been there.  It was indeed time to leave.  She became quiet, and they both began to concentrate on getting out of the building, and the site, safely.  They picked up their packs and the automatic weapons they had liberated from the guards, and headed to the back door.

            The two agents stopped briefly before exiting to take a last look at the rank of black drums, mutely awaiting their own destruction.  Mulder's rage at the stupidity of man briefly enveloped him.  He had never been involved in a war, and found it hard to fathom man's ability to dehumanize other men, to look upon the same face from decade to decade, occasionally seeing a friend and ally, and other times seeing a demon from beyond.  The drums in front of them testified to the demon that exists in all men.  To intentionally cause intense pain and suffering, and terror, prior to death, all in the name of "defense", was, to Mulder, the ultimate horror.  He was glad that, at least for a short time, some men had come to their senses.  He knew others still existed in the world that were willing to use these weapons against the "enemy".

            He only wished that he could be sure that the destruction of these weapons would not unleash a new horror, one that his mind, even now, refused to admit except in vague abstractions.  He looked at Scully, and saw a similar rage in her eyes. 

            He took the keys from his pocket and opened the exterior door.  They quickly left the building, checking the perimeter in the cold pre-dawn, and finding it still secure.  Mulder re-locked the door and returned the keys to their hiding place, taking a moment to carefully wipe any leftover fingerprints off each key.  He and Scully moved quickly to where the guard still lay.  Scully had been right.  He was now awake and in no mood to cooperate.

            "Hey, wish I could help," said Scully, mockingly.  "He's your baby."

            Mulder shot her a dirty look and swore under his breath.

            Mulder squatted down beside the guard, who looked at him defiantly.

            He spoke quietly and with authority, removing his weapon from his holster and placing the barrel under the guard's chin.  "Now, let's be sensible about this," said Mulder, whispering in the guard's ear.  The guard showed no fear, and merely glared daggers at Mulder.  He was trained to die.  This did not bode well.  Mulder  continued to look at the guard, deciding how to handle the situation.

            The guard took that moment to strike out, his bound hands closing into fists as he pushed his full weight up and struck Mulder under the chin like a jackhammer.  Mulder fell back onto his back.  Scully immediately moved forward and aimed the sub-machine gun into the guard's face.  The guard dropped back, glaring malevolently at Scully.

            Mulder sat up, and wiped the back of his hand against his mouth.  He came away with blood from where he had bit his lip.  He looked up to see Scully smirking.

            "You're enjoying this, aren't you," asked Mulder, in a harsh whisper.

            Scully shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, feigning innocence.  She didn't quite get all of the smile off her face.

            Mulder got to his feet and squatted beside the guard again.  When he spoke, his voice was hard as nails.  The guard suddenly realized that this person was nobody to take for granted.

            Mulder had decided on his approach.  He picked up his pistol and rammed it roughly against the guard's crotch.  The guard's eyes lit up, and Scully winced.  "You know, the human body can sustain a great deal of damage before it finally dies," said Mulder, in an harsh, icy whisper, "Isn't that right, doctor?" he asked, looking toward Scully.

            Scully nodded wickedly.

            Mulder continued, "But the pain is excruciating.  I think it would be interesting to see how much you can stand before you pass out."

            The defiant look left the guard's eyes, and Mulder knew that the guard would cooperate.

            "That's better," said Mulder, taking his knife from his pocket.  He cut the tape on the guard's legs, and helped him to stand.  He left the tape on the sentry's hands and mouth.

            "We'll make sure that we leave you tied up.  Nobody will know you helped," said Mulder in a conspiring manner.  Scully followed them, the automatic weapon trained on the guard, just in case he changed his mind.

 


	2. Part 2 of 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the story - Mulder and Scully are called to Pueblo, Colorado to investigate a train accident at a Department of Transportation facility. The locals blame the wreck on a phenomenon called "Blue LIghts".
> 
> Set early in the canon (written between seasons 2 and 3), so this is for general audiences. It's at a time when their relationship was still somewhat antagonistic and is told in omniscient third person in multiple POVs. This is a full-length novel originally intended to become one of the novelizations the studio authorized. It's based around a real-life phenomenon in my hometown, as well as places I worked. People from the area will recognize many things. However, it was written early in my career, so it's not as clean as some of my later works. Hope you enjoy!

*** 

When they reached the control panel, Mulder removed the tape from the guard's hands, his pistol still pointed below the guard's belt. Scully stood behind and off to the side, rifle aimed at the guard's head. There was a tense silence as the guard decided whether to try to overpower the two trained agents. His shoulders slumped when he realized that resistance would, most likely, be useless. Scully stepped forward and handed him the card key. She quickly stepped back again. The guard swiped the card through the mechanism, and, when the panel opened, placed his hand on the sensor. The gate swung open. It was the last thing he saw. Scully brought the butt of the rifle down roughly on the back of his neck and he dropped once again to the ground.

"Why did you do that?" asked Mulder, angry and incredulous.

"He can now say in all honesty that he didn't see us escape." said Scully with a shrug. "Let's get out of here."

Mulder was occasionally alarmed to see Scully's professional side. He had to admit that she was right, but it was unnerving to see how well the coldly efficient side suited her. 

They taped the guard's arms and legs once again and returned him to hiding. Mulder had just stepped out of the gate when Scully turned and, raising the rifle to her shoulder, fired a three round burst directly into the control panel. The panel began to spark and smoke, and the gate started to automatically shut. She slipped through at the last second. Mulder realized that she had effectively destroyed the mechanism's memory bank. The investigators wouldn't be able to determine how they had gained access. The guard's position was, for the moment, safe.

They quickly returned to the car and removed their gear. Mulder started the vehicle and they began to return to the motel. As Mulder began to back up, something caught his eye.

"Scully," he said in a hushed voice, "Look!"

Scully turned to look out the back window. Rising over the Depot were three bright blue lights, in a triangle. They hovered for a few moments, and then disappeared.

"What was that?" asked Scully.

"That, Scully," said Mulder, feeling very pleased with himself, "Was Blue Lights."

He turned around, shifted the car into drive, and they drove back to the motel in silence, each thinking their own thoughts.

###  Chapter 16

#### Joe Martin's Office

Pueblo Record

March 28 - 4:30 a.m. 

As Mulder and Scully were settling their weary bones into bed for an hour or two of sleep, Joe Martin was draining the last of his second pot of coffee. He had woken up several hours before on the couch in his office, where he had slept for the second night in a row. Fortunately, his wife had gone to spend several days with his daughter, who was ready to have her second baby.

He was now receiving and making innumerable telephone calls, gathering information on what he believed was the story of the year. He opened his desk drawer to reveal several bottles of vitamin pills. He opened each bottle and shook a single tablet into his hand. When he was done, he had six different sized tablets in his hand. He closed his hand around the multi-hued pills and shook them together as though they were dice. He tossed the handful into his mouth and washed them down with the last swig of coffee.

He ran his fingers through the remaining greying hair on his head, and stretched his back. He was getting too old for this.

The phone rang.

It was the Sergeant from the army base again. He and Joe had made multiple calls back and forth over the last day, and with each passing call, Joe gleaned bits and pieces of information.

"I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon," said Joe, "What's up?"

"I thought you might want to be updated," said the Sergeant, in a stage whisper. "Hold on. Somebody's coming."

Joe heard the phone go dead in his ear. He hung up. The Sergeant would call back as quickly as he could. He took the time to reflect on what he had learned in the past 24 hours. His sources had been unusually reserved. He believed them when they said that they simply had not heard anything.

From the bits of information he obtained from various sources, he had been able to form a somewhat hazy picture. The troops that he and Mulder had seen at the Depot were not members of the Special Forces unit based in Colorado Springs. They had come in, at night, on a transport from out of state. They were bunking at the base, but did not eat meals with the other units, and kept to themselves most of the time. One of the barracks had been completely turned over to the visiting unit, since many of the based units were on duty in Bosnia. Their uniforms had no unit patch, which the other Special Forces guys thought was odd. Most Special Forces units are proud of their trademarks. Rumor had it that the unit was one of the "exclusive" groups that was under CIA control. Joe had not been able to prove or disprove that rumor.

Nobody at the base had any knowledge of the chemicals that were being transported at night. The trucks were from out of the area, as well. The Sergeant, who worked in the motor pool, said that the trucks had New Mexico plates, but had no identification numbers painted on the bodies, as was the custom in the Army. He thought it was weird. The boys in the pool had been visited by the Division General himself, and told that the trucks were in a hurry, to not worry about filling out the normal maintenance paperwork, and to keep quiet if asked any questions. The contact had said that the General was actually nervous when he came to talk with them. 

Joe had found out from an informant in the State Patrol that a permit had been rushed through the system for emergency hazardous materials transport on the Interstate. It was unusual enough to be noticed by several people. The permit was for materials transport from New Mexico, but no originating location was shown on the paperwork. The dispatcher believed that the orders came from way up high, since the Lieutenant himself had walked the permit around, which was unprecedented. Joe looked down at a fax copy of the permit that sat on top of a rapidly growing file. The dispatcher had sent it to him. She had not been told that it was a secret, and normally permits are public information.

Joe then called a Lieutenant named Marilou at home. She worked in the control tower at the Army base. Marilou had told Joe that she had been on duty when the transport arrived. It had not filed a flight plan, and when the tower radioed the plane for identification and to advise them that they had apparently strayed off course, the pilot responded with the call number of Echo-Bravo-1-9, which, Marilou told Joe in a hushed tone, was not a call number that the Army used. The pilot had asked to speak personally to the base commander, Lieutenant Colonel Hernandez. It was nearly midnight when, after some argument, Marilou made the call to the Lt. Colonel. She said that she had been surprised when she called. He wasn't angry at all, and sounded like he had been expecting the call. He arrived at the tower in moments, and authorized the plane to land. She said that the Lt. Colonel had told them that the plane had not landed, and that the incident never happened.

Friends at the Depot told him that the regular sentries had been given a two week leave. The remaining personnel were told in a meeting that additional drums would be arriving that would not be listed on their manifests, and not to ask any questions. The drums were scheduled to be burned first, before the regular list. Nobody knew what was in the drums, and nobody wanted to find out. Joe was told that the orders to ignore the manifest must have come from somebody high enough that he had a five-star general for a lackey.

Army personnel were trained to keep their mouths shut, and Joe was hard pressed to get any information at all. Contacts in related offices also gave him nothing. 

The phone in his office rang again.

Joe picked up the receiver, and said, "Are you clear now?"

"Just for a second," said the Sergeant. "I think the Lieutenant's on to me. He doesn't know who I'm calling, but he's keeping a close eye on me. I could lose my stripes if I'm found out. This will have to be my last call," said the Sergeant, sounding paranoid and rushed.

"I understand," said Joe calmly. "What do you have for me?"

"The trucks are moving out tonight," said the Sergeant. "The unit has already packed their duffels and a transport arrived on the field a few minutes ago. Whatever the operation was, I think it's over. Most importantly, though, I heard a couple of the guys in the visiting unit talking as I passed them at dinner. They were talking about their operation, and one of them said that it was a good thing that Congress didn't know what they were transporting across state lines, or funding for their operation would probably be cut." The Sergeant sounded increasingly nervous. "The other guy just laughed, and said that even if Congress knew that they existed, their funding didn't come through the budget. He said it was like sex, Congress couldn't cut them off if they didn't know where they were getting it. Then they both laughed. Joe, I don't know who these guys are, but . . ." said the Sergeant, suddenly cutting off. When he began to talk again, it was as though he were talking to a girlfriend. "So, Stacey, how about this weekend? Oh, I know I wore you out last weekend, but . . ." said the Sergeant.

Joe kept silent, knowing that someone had just stepped into the room where the Sergeant was on the phone. He heard his friend cover the mouthpiece with his hand and say to someone, "Hey, I'll be done in a second. Could I have a little privacy?"

Joe strained to hear as a new voice cut in, "Privacy? Sure, we'll give you privacy. We're here to make sure that nobody ever bothers you again."

Joe's eyes went wide as he heard two muffled thumps that could only be suppressed gunshots. A loud clattering sound in the receiver made Joe pull the phone away from his ear. The receiver had dropped against something hard. 

Joe heard the receiver being picked up again, and a third male voice came over the speaker, "Stacey?" said the voice, "Sorry, the Sarge won't be able to make it this weekend, but I can come over. What are you wearing?" Joe heard the sound of laughter just before the phone went dead.

Joe set down the receiver and felt nauseated. The Sergeant was a good man, a good friend. He suddenly realized just how deep this story was. Was the truth worth putting all of his contacts in danger? Many of them were friends. They had shared beers, and their families had been to barbecues together. And what about his own family? Was this story worth putting them in danger as well? He didn't worry about himself, but his family was everything to him. He had moved to this town to get away from the very feeling of dread that his children had grown up with. A safe town, a town with no secrets--until now.

Joe felt very close to crying. 

What would be the cost of truth this time?, he thought with anguish.

He realized that he was exhausted. He needed to lie down for a few minutes and collect his thoughts. He lay down on the couch again, his arm covering his eyes, his heart pounding as he realized that he might be next. A single tear rolled down his cheek and dropped, shining in the harsh fluorescent light, onto the floor. It was a meager memorial to his friend, but all he could offer right now. He closed his eyes and eventually drifted into a restless slumber.

### Chapter 17

#### El Pueblo Motel

Pueblo, Colorado

March 28 - 8:15 a.m. 

Scully knocked on the door to Mulder's room. She could hear his muffled voice talking to someone inside.

"Come on in, Scully," said Mulder in a loud voice.

She opened the door and saw Mulder sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing his suit pants and an unbuttoned white dress shirt, his white T-Shirt showing through. He had no socks or shoes on, and his hair was still mussed from sleep. But his eyes were bright and animated. He was talking on the room phone to someone.

"Okay, Harry," he said, "Get started on the sampling. I'll let you decide what tests need to be done. When you have the samples, get a courier to run them to the lab in Springs. Scully will be waiting for them," He listened for a moment and then said with a smile, "Yeah, that's her. One of these days I'll introduce you two while she's conscious."

Scully smiled. He was apparently talking to the EMT that had worked on her at the Test Track.

"Right," said Mulder. "I'll be out there about 3:00 or 4:00 o'clock. Keep in touch." He hung up the phone, and turned to Scully.

"I've asked Harry Christensen at the Track to get some air samples from the site where Kim and Toby were standing, as well as where the train wrecked. Harry's the Industrial Hygienist out there, in addition to the EMT," said Mulder.

Scully nodded, saying "That's probably a good idea, since we now know that we're dealing with a toxin. I'll watch for the samples sometime this afternoon. Do you think that there may be drums with toxic waste buried out there?" she asked.

"Hey, anything's possible," said Mulder. "I truly think that we're dealing with something a little more unusual, but I won't categorically dismiss plain stupidity."

Mulder finished dressing as Scully went over the plan for the day.

"I'll head up to the lab with the samples," she said, thinking out loud, leaning back against the headboard. She put both pillows between her back and the headboard and punched the pillows to adjust them to her body. She continued, putting her legs on the bed, "while you do . . . what?"

Mulder glanced at her in the mirror as he adjusted his tie. "I'm on my way to Joe Martin's office. I'll see if I can have breakfast with him. I need to get some more information on the incinerator in general."

"What for?" asked Scully, pursing her lips. "We have the sample. What else is to be learned there?"

"I need to get information on how the incinerator runs, in case we need to shut it down." said Mulder, pulling the knot in his tie apart for the third time. His fingers were having a hard time functioning today. The two agents always kept in mind the image of the FBI, and worked hard to look their professional best.

"Shut it down?" asked Scully, slightly confused. "Why would we want to shut it down?"

Mulder grinned at her in the mirror. His tie was finally right, and he turned around, the grin still on his face. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

He sat down on the bed and started to put on his socks and shoes. He noticed a spot of dust on the shoe, and buffed it off with the corner of the bedspread. 

The phone rang, startling them both slightly. Mulder picked up the phone, and said "Mulder."

There was a brief silence, and then a voice that Mulder immediately knew was X said, "Your friend has been asking too many questions."

Mulder furrowed his brow and said, "What friend?" He motioned Scully over to the phone. She quickly moved to Mulder's side, and, holding her head close to his, was able to hear the conversation.

"The reporter," said X. "He's already managed to get one person killed and another injured. I would suggest that you keep him quiet until this is over. You have some influence, but he has no friends at all."

"How do you know . . ." said Mulder.

"That's not your concern. Be thankful that I even advised you of this. Tie him down, sit on him, whatever you need to do, or he'll be dead." said X, as he hung up.

Scully nearly leapt to the window as the dial tone came on. She peeked through the blinds, and then, not seeing what she wanted to, opened the door and went out on the balcony.

"What's up?" said Mulder, following her.

"Just before X hung up, I heard the sound of a semi-tractor's jake brake come over the phone, and at the same time, I heard it in my other ear, from the street," said Scully, sounding frustrated. "Dammit, he was right here! He's gone, though."

"No great surprise there," responded Mulder. "But it sounds like I'd better get over to Joe's office ASAP."

Scully looked grim as she nodded agreement. "I think we'd better get to Joe's office."

"We?" asked Mulder. "I thought you were going to the lab."

"The samples can wait for an hour or two. Joe might not be able to wait that long," said Scully, grimly.

Mulder grabbed his jacket from the bed and his keys from the dresser. He tossed the keys to Scully. She preferred to drive when they were together. She couldn't get used to flying low.

They drove to the car rental shop. It was nearly 20 minutes before Scully came out with the keys to a new rental car. She looked chagrined.

"What's wrong?" said Mulder, seeing her expression.

"They were a little reluctant to give me a new car. I thought the other car would be easy to pick up, since I didn't wreck it. Apparently, the tow truck broke both of the axles and ripped off the bumpers trying to get the car back across the gully that I straddled. The rental company hadn't been told what happened, and they were understandably upset about the condition of the car." she said, blushing slightly.

"I can't take you anywhere, can I?" responded Mulder with a sympathetic grin. "I take it everything's been settled?"

"Yeah," said Scully, buttoning the jacket of her wine-colored suit, "They're going to charge the damages to the car back to the towing company. It would have helped if I had gotten an accident report from the State Trooper."

"It would have helped if you had met a State Trooper." replied Mulder. "Follow me over to the newspaper. You can leave from the lab right from there."

"Sounds good. But try to stay within the legal limit for aircraft, won't you?" asked Scully, hopefully.

"I always stay within that limit," said Mulder, eyes twinkling. 

* * *

Doris Bachman arrived at her desk a few minutes before eight o'clock, as usual. She saw Joe Martin's door was closed, with the light on. As she stepped into his office, the smell of caramelized coffee nearly overpowered her. Joe had forgotten to turn off the burner on the coffee maker once again, and the liquid in the bottom had turned to crust. She saw Joe asleep on the couch, and decided to let him rest. He probably had been up all night working on a story.

She twisted the blinds closed on the windows facing the story room, and pushed a button on his telephone set marked "DND" for Do Not Disturb. Any intercom or incoming call would now get a busy signal. She picked up the coffee pot, inspecting it slightly to determine whether it had cooked long enough to crack, and, seeing that it hadn't, took it into the kitchen to wash.

She got a new pot, filled it with water, and set up the coffeemaker to start a fresh pot as soon as Joe woke up. She turned out the lights, and went back to her desk. He would probably sleep for several hours, as long as nobody bothered him.

* * *

Scully had followed Mulder's directions, and she now turned into the newspaper office lot. She parked the car and they went downstairs to where Joe's office was located. A woman in her 40's with greying blond hair sat at a desk at the bottom of the stairs. Her nameplate said 'Doris Bachman'. Mulder and Scully walked up to her, and Scully said, in her most pleasant voice, "Good Morning, Miss. We're here to see Mr. Martin."

She spoke with a Texas drawl, her soft voice sounding pleasant, but determined. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Martin isn't seeing anyone right now. I could have him call you later, when he's free."

"It's very important that we see Mr. Martin right away," said Mulder, drawing a leather case from his pocket and flipping it open to reveal his FBI identification badge. "I'm afraid that we'll have to insist."

Doris stood up. Both Mulder and Scully were surprised that she was slightly shorter than Scully. It made her about a foot shorter than Mulder. What she lacked in size, though, she made up for in spunk. "Mr. . . Mulder," she said, peering at his badge, "I wouldn't care if this was 1945 and you were the German SS," she said, crossing her arms defiantly, "You'll have to go through me to get to Mr. Martin." "And," she continued, "I should warn you that I had four older brothers. I don't move easily."

Mulder and Scully looked at each other. They couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or charmed by this petite fireball.

"What is all the racket out here?" shouted Joe Martin, coming out of his office, bleary-eyed.

"Joe, I'm sorry that these. . . 'people' disturbed you. I'll get rid of them." said Doris, concernedly.

"Don't be silly, Doris. Mr. Mulder and Ms. Scully are friends of mine. Be a dear and get us some coffee, will you?" said Joe.

"You don't need coffee, you need food!" said Doris, finding a new target for her attentions.

"But I don't need a mother!" said Joe through clenched teeth. Mulder and Scully could tell that this was an on-going battle of wills. 

"The Hell you don't!" said Doris. Several people in the background snickered. Mulder and Scully did their best to keep straight faces. "When is the last time you ate?"

Joe thought for a minute. "Yesterday sometime, I guess."

"Try the day before that. You never left your office yesterday." said Doris, daring him to challenge her.

"Well, I've been keeping up my health. I take vitamins." responded Joe hotly. 

Doris shook a bottle of vitamin pills in Joe's face. "You mean these? These are supposed to be food 'supplements', not food 'substitutes'. She turned to Mulder and Scully in a blaze of motion. They both stepped back involuntarily, eyes wide. "Will you please take him out of here and get some food in him?"

"Our very reason for stopping by," said Mulder, seizing the opportunity to remove himself from this encounter. "Grab your coat, Joe, breakfast is on us."

Doris turned to Joe, eyes narrowed. "Well?" she said.

"Let me get my keys," he said, seeing his escape opening, "I'll drive."

They left the building, heading toward Joe's car.

"Boy, is she a feisty one," remarked Scully. "How do you put up with that every day?"

Joe looked embarrassed as he said, "She only gets like that when I don't take care of myself. Sometimes I really do need a mother. She followed me from a newspaper where I worked in Texas. She's the greatest assistant I've ever had. Really indispensable."

"She'd have to be," commented Mulder, letting out a silent whistle.

They drove through downtown. Scully noted that the downtown looked deserted, like many other cities. As the suburbs expanded outward, the stores followed, leaving the center of town abandoned. A few businesses struggled to hold on. Several large banks stood on the corners, and a few restaurants and bars had open signs. Joe stopped the car in front of one of the restaurants. The street was free of parked cars.

"Best huevos rancheros in town," said Joe. "People flock down here every day. They do a great carry-out business."

They walked into the restaurant to find nearly every booth taken. They found a single booth in the back of the restaurant and sat down.

"Where did all these people come from?" asked Mulder, amazed. "There are no cars out front."

"The downtown region still has a lot of apartment buildings and homes within walking distance. Everybody down here walks around. The City Fathers are trying to push the area as a 'back to neighborhoods' campaign. You know, 'know your neighbors, watch out for each other, etc.'," said Joe, as he turned and raised his hand to catch the waitress' eye. She nodded to him and started toward their table, grabbing a coffeepot on her way past the counter.

"Hey, Joe," she said, turning his cup over, and filling it with coffee, "What'll you have?"

"Carol, now isn't that a silly question?" asked Joe, taking a sip of the coffee.

The waitress, Carol, was a slender woman in her 50's, with jet black hair that was piled on her head in a classic beehive style.

She shot him a withering look. "I wasn't talking to you, Joe. I know what you want. I was asking these poor innocent people that have chosen your company for breakfast."

Joe stuck out his tongue at her. Carol laughed. She looked at them again, and said, "You only get one more chance to put your order in. I've got five other tables that have sharp utensils who want their food."

Now Mulder and Scully began to laugh. "We'll both have whatever Joe's having. And coffee . . . with sugar" said Mulder.

"Cream for me," Scully said quickly.

"You poor, foolish mortals. I really shouldn't bring you what Joe orders, since you don't know any better. But, the customer's always right." she said, spinning away, stopping to pour coffee in empty cups as she headed back to the counter to pick up orders.

They made small talk until the food arrived. The plates had home fried hashbrowns piled in the center of the plate. Two eggs, over easy, sat on top of the potatoes. The whole plate had been covered with green chili and cheddar cheese. A separate plate with six warm flour tortillas was placed in the center of the table.

"Enjoy," said Carol, her eyes rolling. "Just raise your hand if you want a glass of milk. Most everybody that Joe suckers into eating this asks for one."

Scully looked at the plate with apprehension. She liked spicy food, but this was sounding like a bit more than she could stomach for breakfast.

"Don't listen to her," whispered Joe.

"I heard that," shouted Carol, over the din.

"God, this is great!" said Mulder, who had immediately taken a bite. "Scully, you've got to try this!"

Scully took a tentative bite. It wasn't as hot as the waitress had led them to believe, but the taste was incredibly complex. She took a second bite, letting the flavor of the eggs mix with the chili. "Mmm," was all she could say as she chewed the large pieces of pork and peppers.

"Told you that you'd like it," said Joe, shoveling the food in as fast as he could chew. "I guess I am kind of hungry. I just hate it when she's right." He chewed with gusto, devouring half of his plate in the time it took Scully to chew one mouthful.

Joe had finished in moments. He used a rolled-up tortilla to sop up the remaining chili. Mulder and Scully finished shortly after him, each of them surprised at how hungry they were, as well.

After Carol had picked up their plates, they sat back and sipped their coffee slowly.

"Now that we've been fed," said Joe, sighing happily, "What did you stop by for?"

Mulder and Scully looked at each other. Scully silently urged Mulder to start.

"You've recently made some dangerous enemies, Joe," began Mulder. "I don't know what you've been working on, but we've been informed that several of your contacts have been, shall we say, 'silenced'."

Joe put his head back and looked at the ceiling. When he looked back at Mulder, his face was filled with pain. "Yeah," he said, "I know. Or, at least, I know about one of them. He was a good friend of mine. Who was the other?"

"I didn't get names. I was lucky to get a warning about you," said Mulder. "The person who gave me the message doesn't normally elaborate beyond what needs to be said. I'm not going to ask what you've been working on, because I think I know. But you've got to stop. The people that you're dealing with don't give a damn who gets hurt." said Mulder, his voice sounding harsh.

"I wish I could stop," said Joe. He sounded truly sorry. "But you, of all people, know I can't. The truth has to get out."

Mulder looked at him with renewed respect, and with a touch of sorrow. He did indeed know Joe's position. He had been in similar situations in the past. 

Scully looked at Joe, and said quietly, "It's not worth it, Joe. I've learned from working with Mulder that these people are too powerful. Let the story drop. Just for now. Bring it up again later, when it doesn't matter any more. Your wife doesn't need to be a widow so early in life." She sounded truly concerned.

Joe hung his head, and whispered, "The truth has always been a demanding mistress." He looked up, his face growing hard, "Maybe you're right. I've given up a lot of things in my life for the truth. Maybe this time, the truth owes me my happiness. My family needs me more than this town needs a scandal." For a moment, his eyes lost the haunted look, and he looked truly at peace. "But, before I drop it altogether," he said, "You guys need to hear what I've found out."

"Fair enough," said Mulder, "What have you found?"

"Not here," said Joe in a whisper, "Let's go back to the office. There are a couple of people in here that I don't know."

He jerked his head sideways and glanced pointedly at a blond man wearing sunglasses, sitting several tables away. Mulder and Scully nodded. They left the payment for the bill, plus a generous tip, on the table for the waitress to pick up. They got back in Joe's car and headed back to the newspaper office. Mulder checked carefully behind them. As far as he could tell, they had not been followed.

Seated back in Joe's office, with the phones turned off and the door locked, Joe proceeded to bring them up to date on what he had found out. Mulder and Scully took it all in, knowing much of the information from their independent inquiry, and theorizing a lot of the rest.

"Mulder," said Scully, "before I forget, what was it that I 'wouldn't believe' about why you may need to shut down the incinerator?"

Mulder stood up and began to pace. Scully saw the signs that one of his wild theories was about to surface. She mentally prepared herself for the onslaught.

"I believe that the nerve gas that caused the symptoms in Toby Granger and Kim Delaney and the unknown protein that killed Bob Lopez are one and the same." He waited for Scully's reaction.

"You're joking, right?" asked Scully, as the battle began. "Mulder, one is a chemical agent, and one is a biological agent. They are not interchangeable."

Joe sat back in his chair, taking in the exchange. He could see the dynamics of their relationship more clearly now. They were indeed well suited to one another.

"But, Scully, what if . . ." began Mulder.

"What if what, Mulder?" said Scully hotly. "It's a scientific impossibility. You can't change a non-biological chemical into a living organism." She was leaning on the desk, her body rigid.

"Then how do you explain life on earth?" asked Mulder quietly. "Or do you support the creationist theory?" He knew that he was treading on thin ground. It was not a subject that they had broached before.

He immediately regretted his words when she raised her eyes to stare into his. There was a brief flash of anger and shame in her eyes. He waited silently as she struggled to formulate a response.

The debate going on inside Dana Scully's mind had been fought many times between her and her Mother. She unconsciously reached her hand up to touch the small gold cross she always wore. Scully had been raised a devout Catholic. When she had entered high school and began to take science classes, she started to question the faith that her Mother held dear. They had gone round and round on the subject, with Scully trying to explain the logic of why evolution must have occurred, and her Mother, just as strongly, illustrating why her faith in the Bible's story of creation made it true. 

They had ultimately agreed to disagree. 

It took Scully several more years to make a fragile truce within herself, acknowledging the logic of evolution, while hoping for and grasping at the faith of creation. 

She realized that she was not yet ready to debate the subject with Mulder. She was frightened that, no matter what position he took, she might lose the debate. She couldn't bear to lose either her logic or her faith. She decided it was best to retreat.

"I'm willing to acknowledge the possibility that a similar freak accident that created life could occur a second time," she said carefully, giving an inch, "as long as you acknowledge that the possibility is extremely remote."

Mulder silently passed his apology to Scully with his eyes, and said, "I'll grant you that."

"I'm sorry, guys," cut in Joe, "But you've both completely lost me. Are you saying that the drums that we saw the troops unloading contain some kind of living organism that killed Bob Lopez?" he asked.

"Not as such right now," replied Mulder, getting into his subject again. "What I believe is that the nerve gas, when combined with the catalyst, a certain temperature, and, conceivably, some other stimulus, creates a life form."

"Mulder, I'm sorry, but I really think you've gone around the bend. I agree with Dana here. That's impossible."

"Thank you, Joe," said Scully with satisfaction.

"Here, let's play a little game," said Mulder, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil.

"Mulder, we don't have time for games," said Scully, irritated.

"We have a second to spare for this. It's important to illustrate my point." said Mulder. He was quickly drawing something on the paper. He tore the page in half, and handed both Scully and Joe a sheet. On the page was drawn a series of nine black dots, in the following pattern.

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

"Okay," Mulder said to both of them, "the object of the game is to draw four lines that will connect all of the dots. You can't raise your pencil from the paper, and you can't use any curves. A bent line begins a new one. It just takes a second. Give it a try."

Scully and Joe looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. Scully knew that it was a trick problem, but knew that Mulder's reasoning would be sound.

Mulder watched silently as they attempted to connect the dots. Occasionally, he would said "Uh, Uh, no lifting the pencil off the paper," or "Good try, but you can't bend the line."

After several tries each, they both gave up.

"It can't be done," said Scully. "Or else it's a trick."

Joe nodded agreement.

"Of course it can be done, Scully," said Mulder, smiling. "And yes, it's a trick. Watch carefully." He made a new set of dots on a clean page and quickly drew four lines that connected the dots. 

"Hey! No fair!" said Scully. "You can't go outside the lines!"

"What lines?" said Mulder mildly. "The only boundaries that you saw were in your mind. I never said that you couldn't draw as long of a line as you wanted."

Scully snorted and turned away, but Joe looked interested. 

"What point does this illustrate?" asked Joe.

"The point is," said Mulder, his hazel eyes glowing with an intense light, "that sometimes in order to solve a puzzle, you have to be willing to go outside the boundaries. In this case, the boundary is conventional thinking. I think Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said it best, when his character, Sherlock Holmes, said, and I'm paraphrasing, 'When you have eliminated all of the obvious explanations, then that which remains, however unlikely, must be the truth,'" he concluded.

"Okay," said Scully, spinning to face Mulder, her eyes granting him the logic of his line of reasoning, "I'll allow you the possibility that a chemical can turn into a biological organism. Is that all? No little green men? No extraterrestrial protein? Just science; albeit borderline science. Nothing else?"

"I wasn't done yet, Scully," said Mulder, smiling gently.

Scully groaned.

Joe still looked interested. "Is this where Blue Lights comes in?" he asked.

"It is," said Mulder. "I've been formulating a theory about Blue Lights. Mind if I ask a couple more questions?" he asked Joe.

"If I know the answers, sure," said Joe, shrugging slightly.

Mulder started to pace in front of Joe's desk, like a lawyer in front of a witness stand. "When was the first reported sighting?"

"In the early '50s, probably late 1951 or early 1952," responded Joe.

"Could it have been mid-summer in 1952?" asked Mulder.

"It could have been around then. I'd have to look back in my files," answered Joe. "Why?"

"In June of 1952," explained Mulder, "There were multiple sightings of unidentified blue-white lights in several cities, including Washington, D.C."

"I think I remember something about that," said Joe, "But the State Department said it was a weather inversion, or something like that."

"That's what they said," Mulder said, smiling, "But witnesses on the scene said they definitely made contact with metallic objects that traveled more than Mach 4, far faster than the fastest speed of the interceptor planes that they sent out to verify the radar contacts. It could be that one of the objects decided it liked the area and stayed."

Joe pursed his lips. "It could explain a great deal."

"Also, you said earlier that Blue Lights can only be seen while in a car, is that right?"

"Right," nodded Joe.

"Has anyone ever tried to sit inside a car waiting while another car sits outside the lot, watching?" he asked, stopping in front of Joe's desk.

"Several times. Myself included," responded Joe. "Blue Lights never appeared. But," he said pointedly, "When I had the other person leave the area, they appeared in a few moments. Could be coincidence, but I think probably it doesn't want witnesses."

"Could it be a single person, perpetuating a grand hoax over the years, like the Cardiff Giant?" Mulder asked. He referred to a hoax from the previous century, where two individuals carved a stone figure of a man. They claimed it was the petrified remains of the "missing link" between humans and apes, and they sold it for a large sum. It was many years before the hoax was discovered.

"Forty years is a long time to keep a hoax going. If the lights only appeared on occasion, I might buy the theory. But for one person to be present each time someone shows up, on a whim, would be stretching coincidence to the ridiculous." said Joe.

Mulder nodded, deep in thought. Scully sat on the couch, alternately rolling her eyes, and listening intently.

"Has there ever been a report of Blue Lights appearing outside of the area?" asked Mulder, "Even a rumor?"

Joe shook his head violently. "None. And I've probably read every report and interviewed every witness that I've been able to find over the years."

Scully started to ask a question, and then stopped. She was almost afraid to voice the question, feeling that it might lend credence to Mulder's theory. Oh, well, thought Scully, Once an investigator, always an investigator. "Is it remotely possible that there might be two separate entities?" she asked, "Assuming, of course, that there's even one." She simply had to qualify the question.

Joe and Mulder both turned to look at her. Mulder smiled, while Joe frowned slightly.

"I guess the thought's never occurred to me," said Joe. "If there is a second one, where did it come from, and how would we be able to tell?"

"I don't have an answer to either question, but thank you, Scully," said Mulder. "That was going to be my next question."

"Great minds think alike," said Scully, jokingly.

"My very thought," responded Mulder, earnestly.

"So, if you're done with the questions," said Joe, "What's your theory?"

Mulder spun one of the armless guest chairs around, straddled it backwards, and leaned his arms on the backrest, facing both Joe and Scully. Scully could almost see the gears in his mind working, leaping beyond conventional thinking, into the unknown.

"Using the available information about Blue Lights," began Mulder, "It appears that not only may the entity be considered intelligent, but that it can also be deemed to be a resident of this City."

Joe nodded, while Scully remained noncommittal.

"This is somewhat unprecedented in the annals of the paranormal. Whether Blue Lights is considered a disembodied spirit of some sort, or extraterrestrial in origin, it is probably the first incident that I have found where the entity is not only native to a specific region, but 'on-call', appearing when requested." continued Mulder. "It is the 'on-call' nature of the entity that leads me to believe that it is intelligent, and curious. If it does possess some form of precognition or superior intelligence, I believe that it recognizes the risk that the incinerator poses to the residents of the City. If I'm right, and the chemical in the drum can be mutated into the pathologic protein, then perhaps Blue Lights conspired to bring the fact to the attention of someone that could fix the problem."

"In what manner?" asked Joe.

Mulder took a deep breath. He couldn't look at Scully. He knew instinctively what her reaction to his next statement would be.

"I believe that Blue Lights created the conditions necessary to cause Bob Lopez to die via the protein. Kim and Toby weren't supposed to be there, and therefore, only received a dose of the nerve agent," said Mulder. "The collision of the engine in such a mysterious manner was necessary to bring in authorities with the ability to determine the protein's existence."

There was silence in the room as Mulder concluded his statement. Scully and Joe looked at each other, and then at Mulder. Then Scully burst out laughing.

* * *

As Scully tried to control the laughter that erupted from her, and Joe started to chuckle in response, Mulder looked decidedly annoyed.

"Do you find something amusing, Agent Scully?" asked Mulder.

"Not amusing," said Scully, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, "Incredible! You're starting to believe your own press, Mulder."

"How so?" he asked mildly. He would not let her reaction bother him.

"You want us to believe that not only did this entity instinctively know that a particular chain reaction could occur if the incinerator began firing, but that it was aware of your existence, and specifically designed an accident that would cause you to be called in," said Scully, "Is that about right?"

"Well," began Mulder carefully, "I wouldn't say that it is aware of my existence but, essentially, yes."

Joe looked dumbfounded. "And you're also saying that, as 'protector' of the City, it felt it necessary to kill a good friend of mine just so the FBI would be called in to investigate?"

Mulder looked at both of them. He felt like he was a salmon, swimming upstream against a waterfall. "I won't even begin to try to rationalize the motives of the entity."

"But you are saying that the death was intentional?" asked Scully. She was trying to trap him, and he knew it.

"Yes, I believe it was," he said, responding to the challenge. "Think about it, Scully. Would the FBI have been called in if just the death, or the accident, had occurred? You know we wouldn't. Nobody has found a shred of evidence that would explain the destruction of the engine. Nobody, so far, has found a shred of evidence about why there was traces of platinum in the fabric. What will it take for you to believe that there are answers beyond man's limited perception of science? Isn't it conceivable that the death was planned?" he asked her.

"Oh, I have no particular difficulty with the concept that the death was planned. My difficulty is with who you think planned it," she responded.

Mulder realized that he was fighting a losing battle. He decided to proceed with a different approach. "I admit that the concept seems outlandish. If I'm all wet, if everything that I've said about how the accident occurred is a fantasy created in my mind . . ." said Mulder.

"Which seems likely at this point," interrupted Scully, with a smirk. 

Mulder glared at her.

"The fact remains that we have discovered that Lopez's death was due to the protein," he said. "If I'm right, and it's found to have been created by the combination of circumstances at the incinerator, how should we proceed?"

He had touched the right nerve. Scully's expression turned serious. She took a deep breath. "If the nerve agent can be mutated into the protein," she said, "we have a distinct problem. The protein is very fast acting. Even if we can find an antidote, it won't be sufficient."

"Why not?" asked Mulder. "If we can find an antidote, can't we save some lives?"

"Perhaps," responded Scully. "But to what end? If we can reach someone that has ingested or absorbed the protein in enough time to administer an antidote, and that's a big 'if', given the speed with which the protein reacts, the enzyme that relays signals to the brain can't simply be turned back on. They'll be gone," she said, shaking her head. "Given enough time, the body might recover, or, it might not. It's a complete unknown. If enough of the enzyme is destroyed, the person will be a vegetable. Even if we could somehow manufacture enough of the enzyme in a lab, science still knows too little about the function of the nervous system to effectively rehabilitate a person."

"It sounds bleak," commented Joe.

"Our only chance is to find a way to either destroy the protein or prevent it from absorbing the enzyme. Reversal of the effects isn't an option." she said.

"Well," said Mulder, standing up. "Sounds like you've got some work to do at the lab, then. The incinerator begins firing . . . when, Joe?"

"They start in earnest tomorrow night. They made a deal with the City that until they knew for certain what their energy needs would be, they would only fire at night." answered Joe.

"I'll get moving up to the lab, then," said Scully, slipping on her coat. "I'll keep you updated as to my progress. What are you going to do, Mulder?"

Mulder looked at his watch. It was almost noon. "I'd like to look at whatever information you have about the incinerator. We need to know its weaknesses. That'll probably take an hour or two. Then I'll probably head out to the Track. I'll help Harry collect the air samples, and see if there's anything else to be learned there."

"And I'll probably go home and get some sleep . . . for real this time," said Joe. Mulder and Scully had already figured out that Joe hadn't slept in several days. "I've got quite a bit of information about the incinerator. Doris can pull up the file for you. Copy what you need, and then leave the file on my desk. Call me later and let me know what you've discovered."

Mulder and Scully nodded.

Doris knocked timidly on the door to Joe's office. Scully stepped across to the door and unlocked it. "Joe, I thought you'd want to know. A news report just came out that Janna Juarez, the State Patrol dispatcher that was one of your contacts, was hit by a drunk driver early this morning. She's not expected to live."

"There's the other one, then," he said quietly. 

Doris looked at him strangely. "I was going to ask if you wanted to send flowers from the paper?"

"Not from the paper, no," said Joe. "Get a bouquet delivered here and I'll take it over to the hospital later. Is she here or in Springs?"

"She's here," replied Doris. "I got her room number from information."

"Good," said Joe. "Keep me informed on her condition. I'm going to go home for a while," He put on his jacket and started for the door. "You know, she and her husband had been trying to have children," he explained, mostly to himself. "At this point, I'm glad that they hadn't been able to."

Scully nodded sympathetically.

Mulder looked angry.

"Oh, and Doris," he said. She turned. "Find my research file on the incinerator for Mr. Mulder. He can stay in here or use one of the desks outside to review the information. Make whatever copies he needs, and then leave the file on my desk. I'll look at it later." 

Doris nodded. "Will do, boss. Anything else?"

"Yeah," he said, "Don't let anyone call me at home."

"Naturally," she said with a smile. "They know they're under the threat of death to do that."

"Isn't everyone lately?" asked Joe, wearily.

Scully and Joe left together, leaving Mulder and Doris in the office.

"I'm sorry for my conduct earlier, Mr. Mulder," said Doris, self-consciously. "I get concerned about Joe. He goes overboard sometimes in trying to get a story."

"No apology necessary," said Mulder with a grin, "I get the same way. Scully keeps me in line. Now, where's that file?"

Doris brightened, looking years younger. "I'll get it for you."

She left and returned in a moment with a thick file folder, which she placed on the desk in front of him. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Love it," responded Mulder. "Sugar only."

"I'll let you do your own. I like tons of sugar in my coffee, and tend to sweeten to my own taste. I learned that not everybody likes coffee that makes their teeth sing," she said with a laugh.

She left the room, leaving Mulder to stare glassy-eyed at blueprints and technical data. Oh, well, at least it's on hard paper, instead of microfilm, he thought.

### Chapter 18

#### Rocky Mountain ChemTest Laboratory 

Colorado Springs, Colorado 

March 28 - 1:14 p.m. 

When Scully arrived at the lab with the new samples, Tim met her at the door. His broad smile seemed even more brilliant against his dark skin.

"I was wondering whether you were going to make it today," he said, with a hint of a South African accent. He helped her put her purse and coat in a locker. "You had said earlier that you were on a tight deadline."

"I am," said Scully, "But I was unavoidably detained. Do you have anything new today?"

They moved into the changing room and Scully slipped into the white, Tyvec, "spacesuit", while Tim hooked the suit to a movable oxygen hose.

"Actually, yeah," said Tim, getting into his own suit, "We've learned a great deal. We did a spectrophotometry trial this morning."

"In what spectrum?" asked Scully. A spectrophotometry test checked the reaction of the molecule to various spectrums of light. Some spectrums of light in sunlight could kill some bacteria, while some in the ultraviolet or infrared would kill others.

"We got a reaction in the ultra-violet range. Around 230 nanometers," he said. "It didn't stop it from absorbing the enzyme, but it slowed division of the protein."

"Well, it's a start," said Scully, sounding muffled from the transmitter in the suit. "What else?"

"We also were able to destroy it entirely with gamma radiation, but only above 460 Roentgens." Scully winced. That level of radiation would also kill the host. She was reminded of an old saying, 'Well, doctor, the operation was a success, but the patient died.' It sort of defeated the purpose.

"How about the test animals?" she asked. "Anything new?"

"Yes and no," said Tim, crossing his arms across his chest. It was difficult with the cumbersome suit. "I was finally able to get the dilution of the molecule down to the point that it didn't kill the subject outright and the animal was able to begin to form antibodies. Unfortunately, the dilution was so weak that I had to use a radioimmunoassay to determine the concentration. It's kind of time consuming. I just barely got finished isolating the antibodies when you got here. Want to help?"

"Hey, many hands make short work," quipped Scully. "Lead me to a microscope."

Scully moved to the lab table where she had worked yesterday. "Have you cloned the antibodies yet?" Cloning referred to the artificial reproduction of antibodies once one was created by the test subject. The cloning of antibodies was the manner in which most vaccines worked.

"Not all of them," said Tim. "Bill and I were working backward in order of priority. I have the Rhesus and the pig done, but not the others."

Scientists had found that the bodies of certain species of monkeys and, surprisingly, pigs, respond in a manner similar to the human body. In some cases, the internal organs of these animals are interchangeable with humans, as well.

"Okay," said Scully, "I'll start introducing the antibodies that you're done with into human blanks. While I'm waiting on those, I have a couple of related samples to test."

"Such as?" asked Tim, interested.

"I think we found the source of the nerve agent that was found in the urine samples of the two people the other night." Scully seldom used the term, "nerve gas". She realized that it was a misnomer, since the chemical was actually produced in liquid form. It was delivered as a mist, which vaguely resembled a gas in appearance.

"Hey, great!" responded Tim. "Where did you find it? Was it a buried drum like Bill thought?"

"Not exactly," responded Scully, carefully. "I'd rather not speculate on how the people got into the material right now."

"Sure, whatever," said Tim, shrugging his shoulders slightly. "I'll start on that, while you work on the blanks. Bill's still working on cloning." Tim waved to another man in a white suit, his face hidden behind the glare from the lighting bouncing off his plexiglass face shield. Scully waved as well. He was in a separate room, where the test animals were kept. A glass wall separated the two rooms.

Scully began the tedious work of taking small samples of the cloned antibodies and inserting them into samples of human spinal fluid, obtained from cadavers from the local university. Once the antibody had been introduced, the antigen, or protein, was introduced into the sample, as well. The scientist watched to determine whether the antibody would attack the protein. She watched with satisfaction as the antibody began to surround the protein, cutting it off from its food supply. The level of antibody wasn't sufficient, however, to stop the protein completely. It slowed the protein's absorption of the enzyme, but did not stop it. 

She tried higher concentrations of the antibody from the monkey sample but, even at full strength, the protein was able to divide and overpower the antibodies. She sighed, and made notes on the chart. She then switched to the swine sample.

Scully snuggled her eye up to the microscope again as she introduced the antibodies from the pig into the spinal fluid. 

As she watched while the antibodies oriented themselves to their new environment, she was suddenly reminded of her childhood, peering through a knothole in the fence of the local baseball field, watching the "big kids" play. She would watch in fascination as the teams were chosen. She could make no decisions, nor alter the play in any way. She could only watch, just like now. 

Her brothers were often among the older children playing ball. Of course, whichever team her brothers were on was the "home team" and she would root for them. Both teams were usually evenly matched, and it became a game of ability. But, she thought grimly, eye to the microscope, this isn't a game of skill. This is life or death. It's still a game, but with bigger stakes. It's more like . . . Rome!

The lions and the Christians. 

The protein and her antibodies.

She rooted for the "Christians", naturally. She did so silently, much as she would have been forced to do in ancient Rome, since the Christians were considered the "bad guys" at that time in history. She could imagine the cheering throng, waiting for the contest that would determine who lived or died. Her champions, the antibodies, amoebic spears at the ready, waited for the opponents. Strong and fearless, they defended the ultimate prize. Life itself.

She held her breath unknowingly as her arm reached forward, holding a thin glass tube. She unspokenly sent her good wishes to the home team as she reached down, placing the tip of the glass tube into the sample.

Opening the gates.

Letting in the lions.

* * *

As the battle for life or death was waged in a lab in Colorado Springs, Mulder drank his third cup of coffee. He knew more now about the function and operation of the incinerator than he had ever cared to know. Unfortunately, in everything he had read, he had found little that revealed itself as a flaw that he and Scully could capitalize on. The operation was quite simple, and mostly foolproof. 

Natural gas entered the burners much like a kitchen stove. The flames burned at a constant 800 degrees. As the electric conveyor belt entered the firing chamber with a certain number of drums, the door to the chamber would shut tight, and the drums, with their contents, would be heated to 800 degrees. According to the plan, the temperature alone would reduce the liquid and plastic drum to a gas, which would rise and be captured by exhaust fans. The gas would travel through steel pipes, with pressure kept constant by electric pumps, into the catalytic converter. The chamber of the converter would fill with the gas until the delicate catalyst was buoyant and suspended in the gas. A chemical reaction would occur when the catalyst met the hot gas, and the gas would be reduced to its base elements; oxygen, carbon and nitrogen. The base elements would then be released into the atmosphere.

He couldn't figure out what could go wrong. But something had.

Mulder closed the file folder and looked at his watch. It was time to go out to the Track and meet Harry. 

He picked up the file and stood. As he walked out to Doris' desk, he shut out the light to Joe's office. He would have to think about the situation. He hoped that Scully was having better luck finding answers today.

 

* * *

The battle was on!

Scully watched in silent fascination as the protein glided toward its food source. She began to see movement in the antibodies as they sensed the intruder. The chemical signal between the antibodies passed quickly, and more antibodies joined the fray. 

They quickly and efficiently surrounded the protein and began to attack. The protein was strong, but it was outnumbered. It moved this way--and that--but could not free itself from its attackers. Many of the defenders died struggling with the protein. But Scully watched in glee as the protein began to succumb to the assault from the antibodies. She continued to look on and, when the protein was at last destroyed, stood and clenched her fist, saying "YES!"

Tim and Bill turned suddenly, startled. They saw the look on Scully's face and shared her elation. 

The home team had won!

But Scully knew that she had fixed the odds. Her team had been prepared, waiting for the lions when they arrived. She knew that in real life, the odds would be fixed against her champions.

She sighed as she set up a new battlefield. One in which the odds would be closer to real life.

One where her team may come home defeated . . . or not come home at all.

* * *

Mulder arrived at the Test Track, his body feeling mauled once again by the rough road. The shocks on this new car were no more effective against the sudden dips and jolts than Mitch's truck. He drove to the Ops building, showing his badge to the gate guard first.

The receptionist paged Harry, who arrived a few moments later.

"Mulder!" said Harry, spotting him in the waiting area. Mulder stood up and they shook hands. 

"Good to see you again," said Mulder. "How are you doing on the air samples?"

Harry checked his watch. "They should be just about ready. I've got the truck outside. You can leave your car here, if you want."

Mulder nodded, grabbing his jacket, which he had removed. The temperatures in this area were strange. It was already close to 75 degrees, but he had quickly learned that he should keep his jacket with him, since it could be 45 degrees when he left in a few hours.

As they drove to the FAST Track, Mulder asked, "What tests did you decide to do?"

"Well," began Harry, "Since we know what we're looking for, but aren't sure of the concentration that might be found, I decided to do several different tests that will search for different elements of the same chemical."

Mulder nodded. "That's probably the best idea."

Harry continued, "I don't have a lot of the fancy equipment that some of the big sites do. I do have equipment that will do the job, just slower. I planted some sorbant charcoal tubes around the area that have been trapping the incoming wind as it blows through the area for the past several hours. That test takes the longest. I also did a Cyclone filter test."

As they drove towards at the FAST Track, Mulder noticed that there were no cars in the parking area, and the train was not running. He commented, "Kind of quiet out here today."

Harry looked at him sharply, anger flaring briefly in his eyes, "I suppose it is. That happens when nobody's working."

Mulder felt the almost physical force of Harry's coldness. "Hey, is something wrong? Is it something I said?"

Harry slammed on the truck brakes, and the truck skidded to a stop. Mulder barely had time to press a straightened arm against the dashboard to avoid being thrown into it. 

Harry glared at him. 

Mulder looked confused. 

As Harry gazed at Mulder, he suddenly realized that Mulder honestly didn't know what was happening, and he quickly calmed down. He ran his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. His shoulders slumped visibly. 

"Sorry, Mulder," he said, "You probably don't know what I've been through lately."

"No, I guess I don't. What's up?" Mulder was concerned about his new friend. He looked at Harry carefully now, seeing for the first time the dark circles under his eyes. He seemed pale and drawn.

"You've got to understand, Mulder," said Harry, "To you and your partner, this is just another investigation."

Mulder nodded, urging him to continue.

"But out here, I'm dealing with the work-related death of the project manager, along with exposure of two of my employees to an unknown chemical hazard." Harry sighed, feeling his age. "I've got OSHA crawling up my tail, and the EPA's is sitting on OSHA's shoulders until they can start extracting their own pound of flesh. I spent the morning with the AAR investigator, and a Federal Marshall working on the collision aspect for the DOT has made an appointment to come out tomorrow."

Harry referred to a separate investigation that is normally conducted by the Occupational Safety and Health Administration whenever a death of an employee occurs. In addition, the Environmental Protection Agency would investigate the cause of any contaminant spill, and the Department of Transportation would conduct their own investigation into the collision, since it occurred on a public carrier.

Mulder suddenly realized the scope of what Harry was saying. He felt sick. "God, Harry, I didn't realize. It never occurred to me what the repercussions would be on-site when all this was done. I've been behaving like a jerk, calling and ordering a bunch of tests that you don't have time for. I'm really sorry. I've been acting like you're at my beck and call."

"No, really, it's all right," said Harry, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, "I would have had to start the air sampling soon anyway."

Mulder looked at him sympathetically.

"But, Dammit, Mulder, I'm only one man!" Harry said angrily. He brought his fist down hard on the steering wheel. "My office has been insane. I've had to commandeer a clerk from the purchasing department just to answer the phone calls from irate alphabet-soup agencies."

"Of which I'm one," said Mulder ruefully. "Really, I'm sorry about this, Harry."

"Mulder, you have nothing to be sorry about," said Harry, regretting his earlier outbreak. "You're only doing what you were told to do. You're investigating. Unfortunately, everybody else is only doing their job, too. The FBI is one of five agencies that are doing separate investigations, all of which have the same priority in the real world. My job is to keep everybody happy and to make sure that everybody gets the information they need," Harry said tiredly. 

"And to answer your question, the site's deserted because of the unknown nature of the hazard. Until we're absolutely certain that there's no danger out here, I've closed down the FAST Track. Now I've got a bunch of angry workers that aren't getting paid for the time off. The foremen are on my back because some of the workers won't be able to hold out until this is over and will find other jobs. We're going to lose some good people," He shook his head. His fatigue was beginning to show. "We've even had to put the clients off until this is settled. It's costing both the Government and the Contractor big bucks for every day that we're down. Everything's in an uproar. I've got Government monitors and AAR Reps breathing down my neck to put a lid on this whole deal. But I can't risk the consequences if someone else gets injured out here."

"What would happen?" asked Mulder.

"What would happen?!?" responded Harry incredulously. He held his hand out, fingers extended. As he named each item, he pushed a finger down. "Well, let's see, OSHA would double or triple the fines to the contractor--on top of the ones we're about to get, for providing an unsafe workplace, as well as willfully exposing employees to a known hazard. The EPA would fine us for not removing the hazard, whether or not we knew about it." He dropped another finger. "We'll be doing medical tests, at our cost, on Toby and Kim for the rest of their lives, plus anyone else that begins to show symptoms, even psychosomatic ones." 

Mulder grimaced as Harry continued, "Plus, we can't be certain that the unknown chemical hasn't already, or won't have some future effect on the engine, rails, ballast, etc. that our clients are paying good money to test. Whether or not we were aware of the hazard, we'll have to give them a discount or re-perform the tests when the area is clear. Heads will begin to roll. The Contractor will probably lose their contract over this."

Mulder held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, okay, I get the picture! Is there any way I can help?"

"Not unless you know the name of a good lawyer. That was the last item on my list. I may end up personally responsible for this accident. I'm probably going to get fired and/or sued."

"What?!!" responded Mulder. "Why?"

"I'm the Safety Manager here, Mulder. I'm accountable for the safety of the people on this site. I only hope that the families of Bob, Kim and Toby don't get it into their heads from one of those shyster T.V. ads to sue my ass," said Harry cynically.

"You haven't done anything wrong! What could you be sued for?" asked Mulder, in shocked surprise.

"I've seen it happen before. People sue whoever they think might have deep pockets. The Government, obviously, the Contractor, me, the employee's foreman, the owner of the land, and whoever else they can think of. The shotgun approach. Blast into the air and see what you hit."

Mulder shook his head angrily. The judicial system had no business allowing those types of cases to go to court. Unfortunately, he had seen it happen before, too. Some of the people even won, at the cost of lives and fortunes. He realized that sometimes the only way to teach large companies respect was to hurt them financially, but the people who sued for greed's sake alone irritated him.

"I've worked out here for six years, Mulder," said Harry. "Over that time, I've probably done a hundred air samples out here at the FAST Track. A lot of the tests over the years have come back with minor inconsistencies. Nothing startling, mind you. Just enough for me to question now whether I should have caught something earlier--seen a pattern that I could have fixed before somebody died. I haven't slept in two days, and I'm starting to get headaches and stomach pains." Harry looked miserable. "So get your investigation done soon. Find out that nothing wrong happened here. That it was just a weird coincidence. Please? I'd like my old life back."

When Mulder responded, he sounded as miserable as Harry looked. "Not to add any more stress to your day, but I'm not sure that we can get the investigation completed at all."

"Pardon me?" asked Harry nervously.

"I don't know if the cause is ever going to be found," responded Mulder. "We're grasping at straws as it is. Nobody can figure out what happened. Unfortunately for you, not finding an answer is no big deal for me or my bosses. It's common in my line of work to mark a case 'unsolved'," Mulder said. 

He paused briefly, and continued with resolve, "But I realize that you don't have that option, and I promise you that I'm going to do everything in my power to put a 'closed' stamp on this file. Okay?" Mulder held out his hand.

Harry grasped it firmly. "Okay! That's all I can ask. Unless, of course, you have any contacts in OSHA that can kind of . . . ease the pressure?"

Mulder smiled. "I'll see what I can do. I have a friend or two that owes me a favor."

Mulder reached for the door handle and opened the door. He was just turning his body to leave the truck, when he heard Harry make a sound. He turned back to find Harry dangling a respirator on one finger.

"Tsk, tsk," said Harry, shaking his head. "Haven't you learned anything, Mulder? If I can't kill my own people, I don't get to kill you, either. You wouldn't want to be responsible for making me fill out more reports, would you?"

Mulder meekly took the respirator from Harry with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry, Harry. I didn't think."

"That was pretty obvious," said Harry, tauntingly. "Here, grab the bag on the floor under your legs and bring it with you."

They stepped out of the truck into the afternoon sun. The air was already starting to cool in anticipation of sunset, and a healthy breeze had sprung up. Mulder reached back into the truck and grabbed his jacket, putting it on as a shield against the wind. His hair blew one way, and then another, as the wind constantly changed direction.

"There's been a pretty good breeze today, on and off," said Harry loudly, through the respirator. "We should get some solid readings."

They crossed the railroad tracks and stopped in front of a metal stake that had been poked in the ground. The stake held a small pump that hummed quietly in the rising wind.

"Can I help?" asked Mulder.

"Yeah, actually you can," responded Harry. "Open the bag for me."

Mulder set the black nylon bag on the ground and unzipped it. Inside, in various compartments, were tweezers, petri dishes, and other objects that Mulder had no clue as to their purpose. Harry unzipped one of the compartments, and took out a zipped sandwich bag with small round rubber objects. 

"These are stoppers for the charcoal tubes. Just hand me two when I ask for them. Also," he said, extracting a piece of paper and two waterproof pens, "I've marked the location of each pump on this map. We'll label the samples as we go. Write the sample number next to the mark on the map."

He also removed a small plastic case. When he opened the lid, it revealed a series of plastic chambers, like a honeycomb, where the charcoal tubes would be inserted.

Mulder looked at the map. It showed the circled letter "S" in five scattered locations, and the letter "C" in a circle in three locations.

"What are the symbols for?" asked Mulder.

"'S' stands for sorbant. Those are the small glass tubes that are in these pumps to collect the sample. The 'C' marking is for the cyclone test. Oh, also grab a couple of the new tubes in that pocket there," Harry said, pointing to a padded compartment where four glass tubes that contained a dark substance rested. "We'll use those as blanks. It's always a good idea to keep the lab on its toes."

Mulder did so, putting the glass tubes in his inside jacket pocket.

Harry hitched up his faded blue jeans and squatted beside the contraption. Mulder noticed that his boots were a darker brown up higher, where his pants protected them against the elements. 

Harry reached out and shut off the pump. He then deftly removed the glass tube from the pump and reached his other hand backwards. Mulder responded instantly by placing two of the rubber stoppers in Harry's hand.

Harry sealed the ends of the tube, used the waterproof marker to write on the paper tab already glued to the tube, and inserted it in the holder. He looked up at Mulder and said, "Mark this one 001."

Mulder could see that the tube Harry had just placed in the holder was also labeled "001". Mulder looked around himself, spotted landmarks that corresponded to the map, and oriented the map with his present location. He carefully penned "001" next to the location of this testing site.

"Okay," said Harry, "Let's move to the next one."

"Are you going to leave the pumps out here?" asked Mulder.

"For now," said Harry, nodding. "They withstand weather well, and I'll be doing more tests in the next couple of days. In other words, 'I'll be back'."

Mulder groaned at Harry's particularly bad imitation of Arnold Schwartzeneger. "Don't quit your day job, Harry."

They both laughed.

* * *

Scully stood at Tim's side as he set up the next test. Scully had already completed her own tests, finding that the best she could hope for to reverse the effects of the protein was a one hour window from the time the protein reached the victim. Any more time than that, and the protein would have divided enough times that no quantity of antibodies would defeat them. Still, it was a small victory.

The test they ran now was the one that Mulder had requested. Tim had already determined that the nerve agent in the syringe was identical in composition to the substance that had been found in Toby's and Kim's urine.

Scully had been surprised when Tim didn't think the test odd.

"Don't apologize, Dana," Tim had said after she had explained Mulder's theory with a small amount of embarrassment, "After all, we've already concluded that this is not a previously categorized protein. I've got an open mind. Why not take a chance? If we can find out what caused it to form, we might be able to stop it."

Scully had been pleased at his response. He was at least willing to question whether the science he knew was all that existed. He was willing to listen and, possibly, learn. He was much like her. She listened to Mulder's theories with a grain of salt, but listened nonetheless. He was too often right.

They had taken a small sample of the material that Scully had obtained from the drum, and were attempting to set up the conditions that might exist in an incinerator.

"Okay," mused Scully, "we have the chemical, we have the catalyst, we have the heat," she said, pointing to a small muffle furnace. The furnace was capable of heating materials to a temperature of over 2,000 degrees. "What are we missing?"

Tim tapped his finger against the counter top. He raised his finger suddenly, pointing at Scully. "The drum! We don't have a sample of the drum itself."

"Damn! You're right! I didn't even think of it. Can we proceed without it?" asked Scully, berating herself for missing that key element.

"Not if we want an accurate test," said Tim, shaking his head. "But . . . were they standard hazardous waste drums?"

"Yep," said Scully, her throat growing hoarse from shouting into the transmitter in her suit, which had been malfunctioning intermittently all day. "Black plastic, 35 gallon size, why?"

She could see Tim smile behind the plexiglass shield. He crooked his finger and turned. She followed him to a window, which showed the lot behind the lab. She gasped in delight. Behind the lab were dozens of black plastic drums, identical to those at the Depot. "Where did these come from?" she asked.

"Oh, we keep a few on hand for local contractors. They buy them from us in an emergency, like when they accidently dig into an undiscovered storage tank. We sell them at cost. It keeps the local companies happy, and they keep sending us work."

"Pretty good P.R." commented Scully, smiling. "Who's idea was that?"

"Mine, of course," said Tim with a laugh. "That's why I make the big bucks."

Tim returned to the wall by the door and pressed a button on the wall. Outside of the room, Bill, who had removed his suit after having completed his portion of the tests, was working on paperwork. Hearing the buzzer, he looked up. He saw Tim standing there and walked over to the wall, pressing a button on his side.

"Bill," said Tim. "Can you run outside and get us a couple of samples of those black drums out back? We need them for the tests we're running."

"Sure," responded Bill, "How many samples, and what size?"

"Oh, just take a knife and whittle off a couple of small pieces. Two or three of various sizes should do. We'll cut them down further in here." responded Tim.

While they waited for Bill, they busied themselves with determining the proper ratio of the drum to the chemical. Tim already had records of the weight of each drum, and the thickness and diameter. Scully was able to provide the approximate volume of liquid. When they were finished with their calculations, they had determined the approximate weight, in grams, of plastic that they would require for the size of the sample of fluid they were testing.

Bill returned in a few minutes with a small plastic sample bag that contained the pieces of drum. He opened a small door in the wall and dropped the bag into a dish. He then closed and locked the door. As he locked the door, a red light appeared on the wall on his side. On the opposite side, at the same moment, a green light appeared on the wall. When Tim saw the green light, he reached out and opened the door on his side. This precaution for transferring material from the outside into the lab was important to protect the person outside the lab, who was not normally suited, from any risk of contamination.

Scully, who was still standing by the wall speaker, said "Thanks, Bill. We'll let you get back to work now."

Bill didn't bother to return to the wall. He merely nodded at Scully through the window and returned to his desk.

Scully and Tim debated whether to sanitize the plastic chips first. They decided that the real drums would have been exposed to the elements and the dust in the warehouse, and it wouldn't be necessary.

"Okay, then," said Tim, as he withdrew a small amount of the yellowish fluid from the syringe with a second needle, "How do you want to work the test?"

"I've been thinking about that. Mulder believes that the incinerator is causing this, so we at least know the upper limit of heat that we can use," said Scully, carefully weighing paper-thin slivers of the black plastic.

"Right," said Tim. "Eight hundred degrees is probably our top end. Where do you want to start? The plastic melts and the liquid vaporizes at 500 degrees, and the plastic breaks down into vapor at 600. In the incinerator, they keep the heat at a constant 800 degrees for at least five full minutes before they open the upper chamber, to ensure total vaporization."

Scully nodded. "Let's split the difference and start at 550 degrees and let it sit for five. Then we can let the vapor react with the catalyst. If we do that every fifty degrees until 800, we'll at least have a starting point that we can narrow down later."

Tim pressed several buttons on the furnace which set the temperature, and watched as the thermometer on the door began to rise. It shortly stopped at 550 degrees and lingered there.

"Works for me," said Tim. He mixed the wafer slices of plastic with the yellow liquid and placed it in the furnace. He set the timer, in a manner similar to programming a microwave, and turned back to Scully. 

The liquid began to steam inside the furnace. The small pieces of plastic warped and distorted.

"We'll need five more samples. You get them ready. When the timer goes off, I'll introduce the catalyst into the upper chamber of the furnace and be ready to take a sample for testing. What exactly are we looking for?"

Inside the furnace, the liquid began to boil furiously as the flames leaped around its container. The thin plastic turned to liquid but remained as a liquid at the bottom of the container. Small droplets of the nerve agent erupted out of the container and turned to gas, rising to the ceiling of the furnace chamber.

Scully shrugged her shoulders. "Got me. The protein, or an early stage of it, I presume. Remember, this isn't my theory."

Scully attended to making additional samples, as Tim took several of the powder-fine granules of catalyst and readied them to insert into the furnace's upper chamber.

The timer counted down, nearing zero.

Tim inserted the sample through a small door on top of the furnace. He could control to the second when the catalyst would be released into the gas that was making its way into the upper chamber.

"BEEP!" announced the timer.

Tim hit the button, releasing the catalyst into the gas. "How long should I wait until I take a sample?" he yelled to Scully, who was across the room.

The gas in the upper chamber had discovered the catalyst, small, white grains floating in the heat. 

"A minute or two, probably no more than that," responded Scully, walking toward him with a tray of five identical test tubes.

A reaction began to occur in the heated chamber. Molecules wound and unwound, losing their identity, and becoming instead, something new.

Tim hit another button, which discontinued the fuel for the fire. It stopped suddenly, leaving an eerie quiet. He then pressed the next button, turning on an exhaust fan. The air inside the furnace began to spin and move toward the corner of the upper chamber. A readout on the furnace quickly indicated that the furnace had achieved a state of vacuum. All of the air, and gas, inside the furnace now resided inside a glass bottle at the end of a steel pipe. Tim sealed the bottle with an airtight seal and took the small glass container to a table.

Scully reached toward the furnace, turning the gas back on, and moving the heat selector up to 600 degrees.

"Any luck?" asked Scully in a few moments.

The thermometer hovered at 600 degrees.

Tim looked up from his instrument. "None. Mostly just oxygen and carbon. A couple of strings of the plastic molecule, but no protein."

Scully shook her head wearily. "We must be nuts to even try this."

"Don't say that, Dana," said Tim. "We're only just beginning. After all, what's the worst that could happen? We fail. That's no better than we've been doing so far."

"But we're wasting time that we could be using to obtain real results," responded Scully in frustration.

Tim walked to where she stood. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Dana, I've set aside all of my other work for the past two days to help you on this project. I'll probably get fired for ignoring the day-to-day stuff. Luckily, Bill's covering for me. I'm going to owe him a steak dinner, which you, in turn, are going to owe me!"

Scully smiled.

"Besides, what tests haven't we tried? The only result that we've been able to find is that this bug is incredibly nasty. We should have turned this over to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta a long time ago. I don't want to, though. I want to get this thing."

Scully nodded. He was right, of course. Being rational hadn't worked so far. As Mulder always said, 'Go with it, Scully!' Her good humor returned.

"Come on, then," she said cheerfully, "Let's find this thing."

The temperature in the furnace continued to hover at 600 degrees. She inserted the second sample into the flames.

"We should probably get working on those antibodies. We may need them if this doesn't work," said Scully.

The liquid began to steam inside the furnace. The small pieces of plastic warped and distorted.

"I'm way ahead of you, doctor," responded Tim. "I've already got five doses in cold storage."

Inside the furnace, the liquid began to boil furiously as the flames leaped around its container. The thin plastic turned to liquid and mixed with the chemical. Many small droplets of the nerve agent and plastic exploded out of the container and turned to gas, rising to the ceiling of the furnace chamber.

Scully took several of the powder-fine granules of catalyst and readied them to insert into the furnace's upper chamber.

"How do we dispose of the animals, by the way?" asked Scully.

"I guess we'll have to see what kills the protein first," responded Tim.

The timer counted down, nearing zero.

Scully inserted the sample through a small door on top of the furnace. She too could control to the second when the catalyst would be released into the gas that was making its way into the upper chamber.

"BEEP!" announced the timer.

Scully lightly pressed the button, releasing the catalyst into the gas. 

"And if we don't find out what kills it?" asked Scully.

The gas in the upper chamber had discovered the catalyst, small, white grains floating in the heat.

"We keep them frozen in nitrogen, I guess. The protein seems at its weakest when it's cold." responded Tim. "I guess we quarantine them for the next hundred years."

A reaction began to occur in the heated chamber. Molecules wound and unwound, losing their identity, and becoming instead, something new, something alive, something hungry.

Scully hit the button to turn off the gas, and turned on the exhaust fan. The gas inside the furnace began to spin and move toward the corner of the upper chamber. A readout on the furnace quickly indicated that the furnace had achieved a state of vacuum. All of the air, and gas inside the furnace now rested inside a glass bottle at the end of a steel pipe. Scully sealed the bottle with an airtight seal and took the small glass container to a table, where she handed it to Tim.

As he began to run his test, Scully returned to the furnace, turning on the gas, and setting the temperature for 650 degrees. The flames grew brighter, more intense, and the thermometer stopped at 650 degrees. She inserted the next sample and set the timer.

"Jesus . . ." whispered Tim quietly. Scully barely caught the sound on her headphone. 

She turned toward him and saw the look on his face. He looked pale. The dark pigment in his skin seemed to fade away, leaving behind only fear. "We've got it."

She bolted to his side. He moved away, allowing her to see. She had come to recognize the protein, having looked at it so many times. Here it was again, but many times over.

Millions of individual, living, hungry molecules. Enough to kill the entire town.

She thought she heard them laughing at her.

She bit back a scream--it would be unseemly. But she allowed her heart to beat rapidly.

Mulder had been right . . . again.

The timer counted down, nearing zero.

Their time had almost run out.

Not at 800 degrees, but at 600. Multiple questions echoed through Scully's mind simultaneously. Was something malfunctioning at the incinerator? Causing the temperature to only reach 600 degrees? Or was the cause something else entirely? 

"BEEP!" announced the timer.

They looked at each other, suddenly remembering the test. Scully hurried, as quickly as her clean suit would allow, to insert the catalyst into the upper chamber.

The gas in the upper chamber discovered the catalyst, small, white grains floating in the heat, and a reaction began to occur in the heated chamber. Molecules wound and unwound, losing their identity, and becoming once again, something new, something alive, and something very, very hungry.

The two scientists waited impatiently for the reaction to be completed. Rushing the test would not accomplish anything. 

Scully stabbed the button that turned on the exhaust fan. The gas inside the furnace began to spin and move toward the corner of the upper chamber. A readout on the furnace quickly indicated that the furnace had achieved a state of vacuum. All of the air, and gas, inside the furnace now resided inside a glass bottle at the end of a steel pipe. She sealed the bottle with an airtight seal and took the small glass container to a table, where she handed it to Tim.

The results were the same.

They looked at each other with horror.

Millions more individual proteins, each one capable of killing a person.

Capable of duplicating themselves, down to the last molecule, to spread to others.

Capable of destroying all life on Earth.

Scully felt the blood rush to her brain. A primal instinct made her want to throw the Petrie dish onto the floor and stomp on the protein molecules like maggots. The very thought of them made her flesh crawl.

All she could think was that she had to find a way to kill them.

She must kill them.

Scully returned to the furnace, and cranked the temperature up, past 700 degrees, past 750 degrees, to 800 degrees. As she threw open the furnace door and prepared to insert a sample, she felt--rather than saw--a white gloved hand grip her shoulder.

She stopped, her hand shaking slightly. Tim looked at her, wordlessly telling her she was panicking, and that she couldn't afford to panic.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for several moments, holding the sample steady. When she opened her eyes, she nodded her head, mentally telling Tim that she had calmed down. She reached out her hand and turned the temperature down to 700 degrees. He released her shoulder.

"Thanks," she said simply.

"None required," Tim responded. "It could have just as easily been me."

At 700 degrees, the test came back the same. Millions more proteins with only one goal--feed and reproduce. There were now enough to wipe out every person in Metropolitan Denver, which had approximately the same population as Washington, D.C.

At 750 degrees, there were enough to wipe out most of the people in the State.

Scully turned the temperature up to 800 degrees for the second time, leaving the dial set this time. The needle rose another notch, remaining level at the number '800'.

Tim held his breath as she inserted the final sample into the furnace.

Bill had joined them now, his heart racing, his brow beginning to form the sweat that was already prevalent on Tim and Scully. His plexiglass face shield began to fog. He forced himself to breath slower.

If this doesn't work . . . Tim thought, and then dismissed the thought just as quickly. It had to work this time.

Scully inserted the catalyst into the furnace. The gas in the upper chamber discovered the catalyst, small, white grains floating in the heat, and a reaction began to occur in the heated chamber. Molecules wound and unwound, losing their identity once again, to become, this time . . .

Scully stabbed the button that turned on the exhaust fan. The air inside the furnace began to spin and move toward the corner of the upper chamber. A readout on the furnace quickly indicated that the furnace had achieved a state of vacuum. All of the air, and gas, inside the furnace now resided inside a glass bottle at the end of a steel pipe. She sealed the bottle with an airtight seal and took the small glass container to a table, where she handed it to Tim.

". . . nothing," said Tim quietly. "NOTHING! IT'S GONE!" he yelled into his transmitter. 

Bill and Scully winced at the sound, but didn't care.

They whooped and yelled and carried on for some minutes, hugging each other with restraint and clapping each other gently on the back. They didn't want to risk damaging their suits at this point. They had been careful not to release any of the protein or nerve agent into the air, but nobody wanted to have to leave the room. Not when the real excitement was about to begin.

It was time for the ultimate test.

The 800 degree temperature would cause the protein not to occur, but would it exterminate the already living molecule?

In the next room, inside a locker, there was a ringing sound. The small cellular phone rang and rang, again and again, before it finally went silent, unheard.

* * *

Mulder closed his cellular phone with an annoyed sound. He was on his way to Colorado Springs with the air samples, and wanted to make sure that he didn't miss Scully at the lab. He wondered why she didn't answer. The thought didn't occur to him that she wouldn't bother to take the phone into the lab since, in the clean suit, she couldn't use it.

He stepped a little harder on the accelerator as the sun began to set behind the mountains. The sky turned a brilliant orange as the clouds lit up, fading to pinks and purples as he raced on. He had not been to the lab before, and had hoped to get directions. Nobody answered the main telephone at the laboratory, either. He wasn't sure whether they were just busy, or if something was wrong.

He contacted an operator and sweet-talked her into giving him directions to the lab. After several minutes, she obliged. He thought he heard her giggle when she mentioned that the research time would be added on to his cellular bill. 

He swore under his breath as he hung up. If he wanted to be billed for sweet-talking someone, he would have dialed a '900' number. At least he could get some satisfaction of his own. But still, he had directions. That was something. He hoped they were accurate. 

Luckily, they were.

As he drove into the parking lot of the lab, he saw Scully's rented car. At least she's here, he thought. Or so he hoped.

He quickly turned into a parking space, hitting the brakes hard and throwing the transmission into 'park'. The tires bumped against the concrete stop and Mulder jerked forward as he was unbuckling his seatbelt. The seatbelt locked up, forcing him back against the seat. He had to wait a moment before the mechanism freed up, and when it did, he unbuckled the belt and opened the door. He heard a chime just as he was starting to shut the door, recognized it, and quickly yanked the door back open. He reached inside the car and retrieved the keys. 

That would have been stupid. he thought. He was too tense, he knew, and he spent a few precious moments calming down.

Controlled now, he grabbed the sample box and, patting his pants pocket to ensure he had the keys this time, he locked the door. 

He walked up the steps and into the front door. He was surprised that the door was open, since it was after five o'clock. The front room was deserted. He called out Scully's name, and waited for a response. He heard nothing. 

He drew his automatic, holding it lightly with one hand in front of him, as he set the sample case on the reception desk. He quietly pulled the slide back, chambering a round of ammo. He picked the sample case back up, and moved deeper into the building.

He discovered the changing room first. He saw Scully's coat and found her purse in the locker. No wonder she didn't answer, he thought as he pulled out her cellular phone.

He stopped suddenly as he heard a noise in the next room. He gently set the sample case down on the bench, and moved silently toward the sound, gun held muzzle-up in front of him. Both arms were bent slightly and elevated to just below eye level. As he rounded the corner, weapon first, he saw a figure just beginning to take off a white clean suit in an adjoining changing room. The person seemed to sense his presence and spun lightly. When he saw the drawn gun, he quickly put his hands up in the air.

"Don't shoot," said Bill quickly. "I'm Bill Marcus. I work here. You must be Dana's partner? I hope?"

Mulder lowered his gun and unchambered the round when he recognized the name that Scully had mentioned. "Sorry about that," he said apologetically, as he reholstered his weapon. "When I saw the front door open, and nobody answered, I got concerned. Is everything okay?"

"Whew," said Bill. "Nice to know that you're one of the good guys. I'd hate to get on your wrong side. Yeah, everything's fine. We just got done with the experiments. We got so busy, I forgot to lock up." He reached out his hand, and Mulder shook it. Bill had a strong grip. It was obvious he was in good condition.

"By the way, congratulations!" he said to Mulder, smiling.

"For what?" asked Mulder.

"You're a Daddy! Your theory worked out. We had little baby proteins swimming around all over in there." said Bill.

Mulder wasn't sure whether to be happy, or terrified.

Bill continued, grimacing, "Not exactly what we had hoped for, of course, but . . ."

Mulder waited expectantly.

"Note the word, 'had'. We also learned how to kill the bastards!" said Bill with satisfaction.

"Excellent! Nice work!" said Mulder. "What caused the protein and how did you kill it?"

"I'll let you discuss that with your partner. I was out of the room for part of it. Besides, it's getting pretty late. I have a piano recital to attend. My five year old daughter's first," replied Bill.

"Five year old? Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay?" asked Mulder jokingly. First recitals were often rough on the ears.

"Actually, she's quite good. She's been playing since she was two. Her teachers say she's a prodigy. She's already mastered Bach. This recital is her first attempt at jazz piano." Bill looked properly proud. "We had to buy her a custom grand. Her little feet were too short to reach the pedals. Drove her nuts!"

Mulder raised his eyebrows, impressed. "And I have trouble playing a chord! Would you be offended if I passed on a little advice?"

"Not at all," said Bill, shrugging his shoulders.

"Let her be a child first. Don't push too hard. It catches up with a person later. Take it from a psychologist."

"We've already discussed that, me and the wife. We don't push at all. If she wants to play, that's okay, but she's limited to two hours a day. After that, she has to go outside and play with her friends. So far, she's okay. But, thanks," said Bill, tugging on his coat. "Expert opinions are seldom this cheap."

Mulder grinned. "Consider it compensation for nearly scaring you out of your wits."

"That's a deal," said Bill, laughing. He pointed toward the next door. "Your partner's through there. They're just cleaning up." 

Bill noticed the sample case on the bench. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot about the air samples coming in, what with all the excitement. Run them in quick before they de-suit. They probably forgot, as well. Tim will walk you through the procedure. I've got to go," he said, checking his watch and quickly sprinting toward the front of the building.

Mulder turned as he heard Bill's voice from the front of the building.

"I'll lock up!" he shouted. "Tim can let you guys out! Have fun!"

Mulder shouted back, "You too!"

Mulder stepped through the next door and saw Scully and Tim just getting ready to exit the lab. Scully looked up, saw him, and waved. She walked toward the door, when she saw Mulder shake his head. She walked to the wall speaker instead. She motioned him to the other speaker.

"Hi," she said, "What's up?"

"I just met Bill on his way out. He told me to pop in here real quick and remind you about the air samples," said Mulder. He held up the sample case.

Scully and Tim looked at each other. "That's right, I forgot all about them."

Scully explained to Mulder how the sample drawer worked, and soon, Scully had the sample case in her hands. Tim walked toward her and started to remove several of the sample tubes to test.

"You don't have to stay," said Scully. "I can take care of these."

"No, that's all right," replied Tim, "I gave up having a social life for Lent."

Scully laughed brightly. She picked up one of the glass tubes and began to test the sample.

Mulder sat at Bill's desk outside the lab, watching as the tests were performed. A thought occurred to him, and he reached into his inside jacket pocket, drawing out his cellular phone.

He dialed the number of Joe's office.

"Joe Martin's office," came Doris' soft drawl over the receiver. "Doris speaking."

"Hi, Doris," said Mulder. "This is Agent Mulder. Is Joe in?"

"Oh, good evening, Mr. Mulder," she replied. "No, I'm sorry, he's not. He went over to the hospital to check on Jenna. You just caught me on my way out, but he'll probably be back later. Do you want to leave a message on his voice mail?"

"Yes, please," replied Mulder. "Thanks. Have a good night."

"I will, thanks. Here you go," she said.

Mulder heard the slight clicking sound as Doris punched the buttons to transfer the call to Joe's voice mailbox.

"You have reached the voice mail of," began the soft female voice.

"Joe Martin," came Joe's voice over the receiver.

The feminine voice returned. "Please leave a message after the tone. When you have finished, you may press '1' for special sending options, or simply hang up." Mulder waited until he heard the soft 'beep'.

"Joe," said Mulder, "This is Mulder. I'm up at the lab in Colorado Springs. We're just getting finished. I'd like to stop by a little later to let you know what we've found. Give me a call on my cellular phone," he said, clearly stating the number of his phone, "And let me know when you'll be available. Maybe we can have dinner. Thanks. Bye." He hung up. Voice mail was convenient, but he hated the rigmarole of pressing all the buttons after leaving a message. He would wait until he had talked to Joe before they returned to Pueblo. The update from Scully about her success would take some time.

* * *

Joe Martin stood at the foot of the hospital bed in the intensive care ward, holding an arrangement of colorful flowers. It was a shame that Janna couldn't see them.

She was unconscious, in a drug-induced coma. She breathed only with the aid of a respirator tube that ran down her throat. White tape held it in place in her mouth. The nurse had told him that the respirator would prevent Janna from talking. Wires and tubes stuck out of her arms and chest. Various machines beeped softly in the background. She was pale and gaunt. She didn't even look like the person he knew.

He stood there, watching helplessly. He wanted to talk to her, tell her he was sorry for getting her involved, tell her that he would make it better. He had already called her husband, Jack, to express his sympathy. Jack also worked for the State Patrol, as a Trooper. He had been in the area when the call came in, and was one of the first cars on the scene. Joe didn't think he would ever be the same.

Jack had told him that he wished he could put his hands around the throat of the driver of the other car and throttle him, but the other driver hadn't survived the accident. The case was being investigated as a probable DUI, but there would be no one to prosecute, no one to blame, no one to answer for what happened to Janna. He heard a hiss of air, and saw the blood pressure cuff on her right arm balloon, automatically checking her pressure and pulse.

Jack told Joe in their conversation that the prognosis for Jenna's recovery was grim. She had received numerous injuries in the crash, which totaled her vehicle. She was only alive because she was a fanatic about wearing a seat belt, and her car had a driver's side air bag. As Joe looked at her in the hospital bed, clinging to life, he wondered whether living was all it was cracked up to be.

The nurse had told him that flowers were not allowed in the intensive care unit, but said it would be okay to take them in briefly, in case she was awake to see them. She wasn't. He stood there a few more moments, saying a silent prayer.

A nurse's aid came in to check equipment. She expertly took readings from the numerous machines at her bedside, appearing satisfied with what she saw.

"You should probably go now," she said softly. "The patient needs to rest." 

Joe nodded.

"See you a little later, Janna," he said softly. He didn't know if she could hear him. He refused to say 'good-bye'. He would stop back later.

Joe left the flower arrangement at the nurse's station in the ICU. At least the flowers would be appreciated by someone. The nurse said that she would let Janna know he was by, when she woke up. It was all he could do, for now.

Joe returned to the office after driving around town briefly to clear his head, and found Mulder's voice mail. He was interested to hear what the two agents had found. He dialed Mulder's number and made arrangements to meet Mulder and his partner at a seafood restaurant at the north end of town.

###  Chapter 19

#### Monty's Seafood Restaurant 

Pueblo, Colorado 

March 28 - 7:15 p.m. 

Mulder, Scully and Joe sat at the table for three that Joe had reserved for them. 

"I'm surprised that they let you reserve a table on such short notice," said Mulder. "It looks like they're pretty busy tonight."

"Certain rules apply in the hospitality industry, even here," responded Joe. "I hold a somewhat important position in town. In addition to the editor, I'm also the food critic," said Joe with a sly smile.

Mulder and Scully looked at each other in surprise. No wonder the staff was fawning over them.

"I'm not above occasionally using that to my advantage, as long as I don't make a habit of it. People in town have learned to respect my taste, as it were, in food. The restaurant understands that if they keep me happy, I'll be seen eating here and their business will do well for a week or two after."

Mulder realized that he was correct, when he noticed several patrons point Joe out.

The waiter took their order, using his best manners. Scully noticed that this wasn't the waiter's normal section. She was certain that he was the best server on duty that night, and had been 'imported' to attend to the restaurant reviewer.

Scully quickly brought Joe up to date on her lab results. She also related that the air samples had all come back negative. She could determine no alternate source of the chemical that had afflicted Toby and Kim, other than Mulder's theory. As she related this to Joe, she stole a glance at Mulder. He didn't look self-satisfied at all. He looked rather like he wished he hadn't been correct.

Mulder was thinking that very thought. He was also wondering whether they were running out of time. He came out of his fog with a start as he realized that Joe and Scully were having a conversation.

"How did you eventually kill the protein?" asked Joe.

"Actually," replied Scully, "The incinerator theory is sound. At 800 degrees, the chemicals do break down to their base elements. We found that the protein, if exposed to that temperature for three minutes or more, dies. The resulting chemical combination, after four minutes, is broken down to the base elements of oxygen, carbon and nitrogen." 

She took another forkful of the dinner salad in front of her.

"What does that mean in the real world?" asked Joe, leaning back in the booth as a hot plate of steaming seafood was placed in front of him.

Mulder responded, as Scully was still chewing the bite of salad. "It means that something is wrong at the incinerator. I don't know what it is, but we've got to find a way to stop it. The problem is, I've reviewed the blueprints and technical material, and I haven't found an easy solution. The only two options, where we wouldn't have to actually be on site, would be to shut down either the electricity or the fuel to the whole plant."

Joe frowned. "And neither option is very likely. Both the power line and gas line are underground. Could we get into the building and shut it off there?"

"After the other night," responded Scully, "Security has probably been beefed up. I doubt that we'd get within a thousand yards of the site."

Mulder nodded agreement, and added, "Plus, even if we knew exactly what component to sabotage, they'd probably have a replacement within a few hours. No," he continued, "Our best bet is to try to get someone to see reason. Maybe they're already aware that something is wrong, and just need a push to fix it. Joe, do you have any contacts out there that might listen to us?" he asked, turning his head, as he placed a bite of shrimp scampi in his mouth.

"I have contacts, but not at the incinerator itself. I haven't had time recently to stroke any of the guys that are running the plant. Sources have to be nurtured before they're reliable." he said.

Mulder nodded. He had several sources of his own, and understood the process.

"So what do we do now?" asked Scully to both of the men, "Just wait and see?"

"No, I think we have to be more proactive than that," responded Mulder. "But we probably can't do anymore tonight. The place is probably deserted, anyway, since they're not going to start the plant until tomorrow night. Let's get some sleep tonight and tackle the problem bright and early tomorrow."

 

They made arrangements to meet at Joe's office at 7:00 the next morning. They finished dinner and went their separate ways.

None of the three people had ever been involved in a construction project before. If they had been, they would have realized that the incinerator was alive with activity that night. The incinerator was scheduled to be turned over to the Army tomorrow. There was no way that the Army would sign off on the project, or on the contractor's check, until the contractor had delivered a working plant. A plant that had been fully tested and had been proved operational . . .

* * *

Cody Tomlinson sat in the padded chair, watching readouts on the wall, as he and the other people prepared for the next in a series of test burns of the chemicals. Cody was feeling very self-satisfied tonight. The plant was responding well to the initial start-up, and he was in the driver's seat. 

At 40 years old, Cody was a career pipe welder. He had recently landed the plum job of head operator at the site. He leaned back in the chair. No more traveling from place to place, job to job, all over the country. No more living in hotels in seedy parts of strange towns so that he would have enough money to support his family. No more rain-outs when he couldn't work, no more blistering heat or freezing cold while he welded in positions that a contortionist wouldn't be able maintain for twelve hours a day as he did.

Cody was one of a breed of skilled craftsmen that followed big construction projects. The pool of qualified welders in the United States had shrunk over the years, leaving plenty of work for him--as long as he was willing to travel. He might be in California for six months, and then in West Virginia for six weeks. The hours were long, but the pay was excellent. That was mandatory, since he may have to live off six months' wages for the whole year. Everybody seemed to run their projects at the same time, in the spring and summer. He could only work so many jobs during that time. For years he had longed for a stable job. And he had finally found one.

Now he could go home every night to his wife and dogs. Hell, he could probably go home for lunch! Maybe they could even have kids now. He had never wanted to before, since he wouldn't feel right about leaving Pam alone to raise them.

The other guys had been envious when he was chosen. They had given him grief, saying he had been lucky. They didn't realize how carefully he had planned to obtain this job. He had studied the blueprints of the proposed project on his lunch hours. He would have taken them home if it was allowed. He had reviewed layouts, making suggestions on improvements to the architect drawings. He pointed out flaws in the design, so that they could be corrected before they were built, all of which had saved the contractor time and money. He had earned praise and gratitude from his employer.

He looked up as a shadow passed across his perifrial vision. Bill Temple was sauntering toward the men's room, his lanky frame unhurried as he crossed the warehouse. They nodded at each other pleasantly. Cody had enlisted the help of Bill to implement his plan. Bill had been his foreman, and he had connections in Management. He had been able to bend the ears of the right people to effect the changes that Cody suggested. Bill and Cody found they had the same goal. Bill was a former iron worker, welding steel plate in buildings. He had jumped across to learn pipe welding while working at a refinery in Texas. Bill had also been tired of traveling and poor working conditions, and wanted to be assigned as an operator. With Cody's help, he had been. They had become close friends in the process.

He snorted derisively. Luck? he thought, I don't think so! He took another sip of coffee. Life was good.

* * *

Across town, a small grey building sat unobtrusively near the edge of town. A Great Horned Owl sat on the building edge--the highest spot in the area. The owl watched through wide yellow eyes for its next meal. The building hummed softly. The owl took no notice. This building was part of its territory. It knew every sound in the area. It filtered out the humming, and concentrated on small rustling sounds in the prairie grass that would broadcast the presence of a mouse or mole. Field mice were the owl's favorite meal. Luckily, the area teemed with them, and the owl was well fed.

Inside the building, heavy black cables ran through and around large pieces of machinery. This was a power substation, serving the northeastern corner of the City, including the new incinerator. Muffled clicks and whirs sounded as electricity was funneled from other substations through this one, to turn on lights and T.V.s all over the City, as well as the generators and instrumentation at the new incinerator. 

Everything in the building was black or shades of grey. There were no windows in the low-slung concrete room, and no exterior light penetrated the thick cinder block. There was barely enough room for a man to stand. In fact, only one man had stood in the building since its construction months before. And all he had done was check the readings and leave.

In the corner of the building, a faint glow became noticeable. The glow started as a mild yellow, and increased in intensity, until it reddened, becoming like a Christmas bulb in the darkness.

A crackling sizzle could be heard now, and the owl turned its head toward the sound. 

"Who?" called the large bird, challenging the new sound.

There was no response. 

* * *

Cody tapped the digital readout on the wall. The crummy gauge had been giving them problems since it was installed. If it kept up, he would recommend that it be replaced. 

His dinner break was over and it was time to get back to work. A lot of work needed to be done tonight to get a start-up on the plant. He walked to the thick glass window that looked out into the incinerator. The gas had been turned on, and the flames in the incinerator chamber radiated bright blue. The air was quickly superheating, creating a convection current that would run through the catalyst bed and up the 80 foot tall smoke stack into the atmosphere. The inconel alloy trays showed no signs of heat distress. 

Cody glanced at the temperature gauges again. Four gauges were holding steady at 1000 degrees, while the one faulty gauge jumped wildly from 1000, to 800, to 920, and back down to 600. Cody watched the blue flames closely, trying to determine whether the gauge was simply faulty, or if one of the burners wasn't working properly. He gazed at the flames, watching for any sign of a different colored flame. The burner remained steady blue. He shook his head. It must be the gauge.

"Unit 2 to Unit 7, Unit 2 to Unit 7, come in," came a voice over his radio.

He removed the radio from the holster on his hip, and responded, "7 here. What's up?"

"We've got convection, and the readings on the tower look good. We're ready to start firing," came the disembodied voice that belonged to Bill.

"Okay," said Cody, "I'll turn down the heat."

He returned to his control panel, and quickly pressed a series of keystrokes that brought up the burner menu on the powerful computer that ran the plant. He lowered the temperature on all five burners to 800 degrees, and watched in satisfaction as the temperatures began to come down. Even the faulty gauge was responding properly, for once. Maybe the bug had worked itself out. When all the numbers reached 800 and remained level for a count of ten, Cody picked up his walkie-talkie again.

"Unit 7 to Unit 2, come in," said Cody into the microphone. He released the talk button, and waited for a response.

"Unit 5 to Unit 7," broke in a new voice.

"Unit 7," responded Cody, "Go ahead."

"Hey, we just finished work on the auger. Mind if we start here?" asked a deep, gravelly voice that belonged to Fred Strang, one of the start-up crew on duty that night.

The auger was the machine that ground the canisters of solid rocket fuel into small particles. The resulting powder was then dumped into the chamber for burning.

"Let me check, Unit 5," responded Cody. "Unit 7 to Unit 2. Did you catch that?"

"Unit 2 here," said Bill. "Yeah, I caught it. If you guys want to start with the solid fuel, it's okay with me. The liquid chute is ready when you are. I'll run to the warehouse and pull a couple of drums, and then come over and watch the fireworks. Wait for me. Unit 2 out."

"10-4," responded Cody, "Unit 7 out."

"Unit 5 out," said Fred.

Cody sat back down in his padded operator's chair. He didn't blame Bill for wanting to watch the first burn. Everybody had been waiting for start-up. The dry runs over the past several days had shown the plant would work. However, he had been through enough start-ups, and emergency shut-downs, to know that anything could happen.

Bill entered the warehouse through the double doors that linked the two buildings. Pretty smart of them to join the buildings, he thought. I'd hate to go outside every time to get a new drum. He grabbed a drum dolley and looked out over the sea of black plastic. Something caught his eye. He stood the dolley up and walked in between two rows of drums until he reached a drum with a swatch of silver duct tape across the cap. He started to rip the tape off, when he suddenly thought better of it. He drew back his hand a bit, and touched the tape instead, pressing down as he drew his finger from side to side across the length of the tape.

Just as he suspected! The tape indented down where a cut had been made in the pastic seal. He checked the barrel and found that it had a red 'X' marked near the bottom. 

He couldn't believe that someone would be so careless!

What if someone else had come by and simply ripped the tape off of the lid, finding out too late that they were exposed to whatever was in the drum? He shook his head angrily. He would have a talk to Operations about this breach of procedure. Whoever did this should get a reprimand in his file.

He strove hard to be safe, and some jerk had just about caused an injury because they were too lazy to mention that a drum was defective! He decided immediately that this drum would be the one to be used in the test burn. No sense in waiting for an accident to happen later on. 

He grabbed the dolley and wheeled it in between the rows. It was a tight fit, and he occasionally bumped the one of the drums on his way down the alley. He twisted the drum back and forth until it was on the dolley. He heard the liquid splashing in the drum. He check again to make sure that the tape seal was tight, and strapped the drum onto the dolley. He tipped it up and slowly eased out of the row.

He could move more freely on the open floor, and quickly traveled the remaining few feet to the double doors. He stood the dolley and walked to the double doors. He hit a button on the wall, similar to those that some offices use for handicapped access. The doors slowly opened. He passed through and hit another button on the wall in the other building. The doors closed gently, and clicked shut.

Bill wheeled the drum to the conveyor belt. He set the edge of the dolley on a steel lift, unstraped the drum, and carefully slid the steel shelf out from underneath the drum. The drum now rested on the stainless steel lift. He hit another button, and the lift raised slowly. When it reached the top of its hydraulic pole, it stopped smoothly. He did not proceed further, since the dry chemical would be first. He left the drum there, and went to the next room to watch the burn.

Bill quickly moved to his assigned spot to watch the burning process. Other people stood at windowed access points along the route the gas would take, starting from the floor of the building.

Cody stood by at the bottom to watch the burners. Bill's gaze traveled up to the next deck, where Paul Zamboynic was observing the catalyst bed. Although he couldn't see them, he knew that Fred Strang and Andre Marshall operated the controls of the huge metal auger. Others stood higher, taking air samples for monitoring, and visually inspecting the process.

Cody pulled out his radio. "Unit 7 to all Units. Count off as ready."

"Unit 2," began Bill, "Ready. Let 'er rip!" He heard polite laughter around him.

"Units 5 and 9 ready," said Fred.

Other voices continued. "Unit 1 ready."

"Unit 11 ready."

"Unit 6 ready." Until they had all called in.

The air crackled with intensity as Cody raised his radio to his lips. "Begin start-up!"

Machines roared to life, and each man's ears vibrated with the pressure. Everybody wore ear plugs; required safety equipment even after construction, and eye goggles. The very floor began to hum as the huge generators came to life. The auger machine began to turn, its rounded stainless chrome blade turning slowly, waiting to crush everything put in its path.

Cody watched his control board carefully. Other than the stupid gauge that was flipping around again, everything was just as it should be.

"Unit 7 to all Units," shouted Cody into the radio. He would become quickly used to projecting his voice over the radio. He always did. "All systems operational. All readings normal. Give me your reports, people!"

"Unit 5," responded Fred first. "We have a Go! All systems optimum."

"Unit 2," came Bill next. "Fluid Catalyst Bed looks good."

Throughout the plant, Cody waited breathlessly for anyone to sound a bad report that would halt the process.

Nobody did.

They were ready.

"Fire up the auger, Unit 5," said Cody. His heart raced. Would this work?

Fred quickly punched buttons, and a canister of solid rocket fuel slid down a chute, where it landed on a round steel plate. Andre watched through the viewport as the auger, spinning slowly, pressed down into the canister, scattering granules of the chemical onto the blades and into the air. Soon, the canister and its contents were brownish bits lying on the plate.

Andre picked up his radio and spoke loud. "Unit 9 to all Units. We have segmentation!"

He couldn't hear the cheers from his rapt audience, but knew they was there by the look on Fred's face. Fred gave him a 'thumbs-up' sign.

Fred pressed another series of buttons, and a burst of air dusted the remaining bits of fuel from the blades of the auger. The pieces fluttered to the bottom of the chute.

The next series of buttons dropped the bottom out of the chute, sending the fragmented rocket fuel down, where they landed on the inconel firing plates. Being cooler than the interior temperature of the incinerator, a quick blast of steam rose from the material. The trays began to vibrate quickly, shifting the rocket fuel until it was evenly scattered over the trays. Small holes in the trays allowed heat to flow uniformly around the solid fuel. 

The individual granules began to pop loudly, like breakfast cereal. As Cody watched, the granules broke into smaller and smaller pieces, eventually becoming a unseen gas that floated up in the convection current.

Cody noted with pleasure that the blue gas flame remained a steady height and color.

But Cody didn't see a the corner of a metal plate that partially obstructed Burner No. 5. The plate was a design defect which was causing the burner to heat erratically. The temperature at the edge of the tray fluctuated wildly from 800 degrees, all the way down to 300 degrees. The gauge that Cody constantly tapped was accurately recording the temperature of the burner. 

If Cody had looked carefully, he would have noticed that the steel plate covered several inches of the burner width, depriving the flame of oxygen, so that at the edge of the firing tray, the flame never reached the thick inconel alloy. Where the burner was not obstructed, the flame had enough oxygen to burn properly.

He reported the conversion of the material to gas, which raised another cheer. He and his men were easy to please. It was Paul's turn next.

"The material is flowing through the catalyst. The fluid bed looks good," said Paul.

Paul could only see the top of the catalyst bed, however. Underneath the bed, near where the vapor entered, the material that had not completed conversion had bound to the catalyst, creating a coating of pure carbon. Each grain of catalyst that became carbonized was useless. If the burner remained unrepaired, all of the catalyst would become contaminated in a short time. Replacement of the catalyst would be an expensive and time-consuming project.

Up higher, Johnny Fischer took samples of the air, checking the emissions immediately with a pocket tester. 

"Unit 11 to all Units. Initial emissions look good. Base elements only. I think we have a clean burn, people!"

Cheers went up all around. The first burn had been a success. Would the liquid test fare as well?

Bill returned to his station.

"Unit 2 to All Units! We're ready to test the liquid sample. All readings normal. Check in!" he ordered in a stage shout.

After all units had checked in as being ready, Bill got to work. The drum with the tape seal sat quietly on the lift. Bill pressed a series of buttons, and the lift moved forward, depositing the drum on a conveyor belt. The belt passed through a steel door, which shut tight behind the drum. The drum reached a stop, where a chute opened beneath it. The drum slid down the chute, gathering momentum, as a series of steel blades popped out from the walls of the chute. The momentum of the drum allowed the steel blades to cleanly slice through the drum. The blades retracted into the walls as experimental World War II nerve gas spurted out from the gashes.

The portion of Burner No. 5 that was covered continued to spit out minimal heat, and the temperature of the tray at the edge was substantially cooler than the rest of the metal.

* * *

The glowing red eye in the corner of High Plains Electric Substation #8 began to throb with intensity. The small copper terminal lug was beginning to distort, allowing the electricity in the high tension line to arc over the top of the lug. It was a bright blue flash that sizzled ominously.

Outside the building, the owl had heard its dinner rustle in the dead grass and had quickly and silently swooped down to catch the furry rodent in its sharp talons. As it flew into the air again, it too heard the sizzling sound from the small grey building. It circled the building once, trying to identify the noise. It didn't like the sizzling sound, and decided to take its meal elsewhere to eat.

The owl flapped its immense wings, gaining altitude. It soared out into the night, the partially impaled mouse firmly clasped in its claws.

Small droplets of copper splashed onto the floor as the $150 fitting melted into oblivion. Electricity shot out of the wires like bolts of lightning, arcing across the space where the lug used to be. With the lug gone, nothing held the wires in place, and the thick, rubber-cased wires dropped to the floor, slithering like snakes on the concrete floor.

* * *

The drum and its contents landed with a splash and a thump on the hot metal trays. Cody watched the wall carefully. He knew that the liquid would have a cooling effect on the metal. He needed to see how far the overall temperature would drop.

Burner #1, the farthest from the entrance, stayed at 800 degrees.

Burner #2 dropped to 780 and then quickly recovered to steady at 800 degrees.

Burner #3, directly under the chute, dropped all the way to 710. It recovered in seconds and shot back up to 800 degrees. He glanced at his watch. Only 18 seconds had elapsed before the temperature recovered. Well within guidelines.

Burner #4 stayed at 800 degrees.

Burner #5 he ignored. He couldn't determine the temperature, but the flame looked fine.

In reality, the temperature of the air over Burner #5 was 623 degrees.

The liquid smoothed itself over the length of the trays. A pool of liquid settled over the tray atop Burner #5. The liquid began to steam, and then to boil.

Then the lights went out.

* * *

Scully sat in her motel room, dressed in sloppy sweats. Leave it to the travel agent at the Bureau to find the only motel in Pueblo without cable. There were only three local stations, none of which particularly interested her. 

She watched anyway. It was something to do. She didn't feel like working on her report, and was too wired to sleep.

Suddenly, the television went dead. Great, she thought. She reached over to turn on the light. The lamp wouldn't come on. The room stayed dark.

* * *

At the incinerator, chaos had broken loose. Instinct took over and people moved to the walls of the building, where battery-operated spotlights hung in easy reach. 

Cody had all the light he needed. He shuddered as he looked through the thick-paned window of the incinerator chamber. Immense orange and yellow flames filled the chamber and lit up the room where Cody stood like a forest fire. Without power, the gas burned uncontrolled. He watched helplessly as the low temperature flames melted the plastic and dripped liquid and plastic into the burners. No gas would form at this low temperature. 

Damn, Damn, DAMN! he thought. This was going to be a long night after all.

After several seconds, he realized that the secondary generator was not kicking in. It would be something else to work on--right after they found out all the gory details of the current mess.

He was already sprinting out of the building as he got on his radio. "Unit 7 to All Units! We have a power outage. Unit 9, start steaming the tower. Bill, meet me outside. We need to get the gas turned off!"

General chatter erupted over the radio as questions were asked and replies given. Each person had their own speciality and began the task of shutting down the plant.

Bill spotted a large wrench on the bench where the spotlight had stood, and picked it up on his way out of the building to meet Cody.

Fred came over to help Andre with the valve to flush steam into the tower to prevent any unburned chemical emissions from reaching the atmosphere. He hoped they had been quick enough.

The manual wheel that turned the valve was stuck. It, like everything else, was new, and had probably only been opened once since it had been installed. Fred and Andre put their backs into the effort, straining muscle against metal until the wheel began to slowly turn. Once it began to turn, it moved easier, until the valve was fully open. The loud hiss of steam erupted into the tower, and burst out of the top of the smoke stack, forming clouds of white mist around the site.

Bill made it out the side door just as the steam from the tower began to settle over the ground. For some reason, the steam cloud had a blue tint. 

He spotted Cody near the gas main shutoff, struggling to crank the wheel to turn off the gas. Bill was at his side in seconds. Even together, they couldn't budge the wheel. 

Bill picked up the long handled cast aluminum wrench that he had brought with him. He inserted the small end of the wrench through one of the slats in the wheel, and began to pull. The wrench provided extra leverage, and with Cody straining beside him, the wheel turned slowly. 

He inspected the wrench. The aluminum handle had bent slightly. It wouldn't be safe to use it again. The wrench was never intended to be a crowbar. Luckily, it was a Craftsman tool. He could simply take it back and exchange it, no questions asked, although he suspected that occasionally the clerk asked someone how they managed to destroy a particular tool, out of curiousity.

With the gas shut off, and the steam tracing running through the stack, Bill and Cody had a few seconds to decide what to do next. They were both soaked with sweat from exertion and stress. Their Nomex heat-resistant coveralls provided the worst of all worlds. Because of their design, the fibers in the fabric tightened when exposed to heat, beneficial in the event of a fire. However, in the summer, the fibers also tightened, leaving them non-porous and extremely hot. In the winter, the fabric loosened, and provided no warmth. Right now, the heat from their exertion had caused the fabric to constrict, and their sweat did not evaporate.

Cody sighed as he looked back at the building. "Let's get back inside and see the damage."

Bill nodded. It was going to be a long night.

"Grab the call-out list from the foreman's office," said Cody as they walked back into the building. "We'll need electricians to get to work on the secondary generator. Get everybody out here that has gone through 40 hour HAZWOPER training recently. They'll need to be on fresh air to get the congealed plastic dug out of the burner elements." 

The people that had attended the week-long EPA Hazardous Waste Operator training class were qualified to be exposed to conditions where full-body protection and supplied air were necessary. The HAZWOPER certificate was only good for a limited period before updating was required by the rules. Those people that hadn't received their update class couldn't be exposed to the unit.

Bill nodded. "We should also get Darlene out here."

"She won't be happy," said Cody, grimacing. Darlene Sehna was the engineer that had drawn most of the blueprints. She had just completed two weeks of 14 hours days with no time off.

"Nobody's going to be happy," responded Bill. "Everybody's tired. That doesn't change the facts, though. We're in shut-down again. We've got less than 24 hours to get this baby up and running."

The rest of the crew was waiting in the meeting room when Bill and Cody arrived. Michael Forbes handed them each a cup of coffee, which they accepted gratefully.

"We've still got phones," said Fred, walking into the room from the next office. "I got hold of someone on the emergency line for High Plains Electric. They said that a quarter of the City is without power. They've got crews working on it now."

"Okay, then," said Cody, clapping his hands together once, for effect. "We've got four outgoing lines," he said, and began to point at people, "Bill, Fred, Andre, and Dave, get working on the call-out list. We need everyone we can get. No laborers, just electricians, HAZWOPER and welders . . . and Darlene. We don't know the damage in there, and won't until we get power back and get in there. The rest of you that aren't HAZWOPER trained, sit tight for a bit. We'll need you as soon as we know the extent of the damage," he said, standing up and throwing the rest of the coffee down his throat. "Let's move, people!"

* * *

Scully turned restlessly in bed, and punched the pillow again. She opened her eyes. 

It was no use. She couldn't sleep. 

She tried the light again. Still out.

She threw back the covers and sat up. She quickly dressed in the dark. She hoped she was putting on something that vaguely coordinated. She put her door key in her pocket, and stepped out of the room. Lights were out as far as she could see. Even the street lamps on the interstate were dark. She went next door to Mulder's room, and knocked gently on the door.

"Mulder?" she asked quietly, "You up?"

There was no response.

She knocked again, a bit louder this time. He still didn't respond.

Then she heard it, a faint thumping sound from behind the building. She knew exactly where Mulder was.

A light breeze cut through the fabric of her shirt. She rubbed her hands on her arms, shivering. She should have grabbed a jacket. As she rounded the last corner on the upper balcony, she saw Mulder, playing a game of basketball against imaginary players. Two blue-white lamps on power poles above the basketball court were still on, illuminating the black asphalt square. Odd, she thought, they must be on a different circuit than the regular lights.

She leaned on the railing and watched him. He was wearing the same faded purple running shorts that he had worn shortly after she first met him, over the top of baggy black sweatpants. He also wore a sweatshirt emblazoned with the Harvard college emblem and running sneakers. He was sweating lightly onto a white headband, his dark hair just beginning to stick together.

He bounced the ball slowly, walking in a zig-zag pattern. She wondered who he was playing against in his mind. With surprising agility, he suddenly feinted left and then spun right. He took several quick steps and executed a perfect lay-up off the backboard. She smiled and clapped.

He looked up and grinned, bowing to his audience. He beckoned her to come down.

She walked down the stairs toward him, and he began to make free throws. Most of them found only net. A few bounced off the rim with a clang.

Mulder was the only person that she knew that based his apartment hunting on whether the building was within walking distance of a basketball court. She liked sports, but didn't like basketball as well as some others. She was a loyal football fan, though--the Redskins were her and her father's team.

"I thought you were supposed to take it easy on that foot," she said lightly.

"I am," he said, catching the ball again after it swished through the net. "I'm not running on it."

She shook her head. "Did you really pack a basketball?"

"Didn't you?" he asked with a grin. "My basketball goes everywhere with me."

He held the ball out to her, arm outstretched. "You try," he offered.

She raised a hands in protest. "No thanks. I couldn't hit the side of a barn. My brothers tried for years to teach me. I'm hopeless."

"C'mon," he said, "You can't be that bad. I'll help you." He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. It was a look nearly guaranteed to win her over. It had many times in the past.

"Okay, okay," she said reluctantly, taking the ball that was held out to her. "There's nothing better to do, anyway."

Her first shot went high over the backboard, bouncing into the parking lot beyond. It bounced off the side of a small car. She winced.

"Maybe I was wrong," he said, surprised. "You are that bad."

Scully wrinkled her nose at him, and took a halfhearted swing at his head. He ducked out of the way and sprinted off into the darkness to shag the ball.

They played on for several hours, blissfully unaware of how close they had come to losing the war that night. They eventually went back upstairs, exhausted, and fell into an easy sleep.

The twin lamps went out shortly after they were asleep.

###  Chapter 20

#### U.S. Army Chemical Disposal Project 

Pueblo, Colorado 

March 29 -- 1:02 a.m. 

"Front Gate to Unit 7," the voice repeated, "Come in."

Cody sat in the foreman's office. He picked up the receiver from the base unit. His own radio stood on the counter in a battery charger.

"Unit 7 here," said Cody, "Go ahead."

"Hey, I just had two of your guys try to come in here," said the guard. "They said you called them out, but they were visibly intoxicated. I sent them home."

Cody shut his eyes and groaned. He was afraid of this. Everybody that had gotten the day off after two weeks straight had probably hit the bars, or invited friends over for a party. He just hoped that there wouldn't be too many. "Who were they?"

"I didn't catch their names," responded the guard. "I've seen them out here, though. One is a welder, and I think the other is one of your electricians."

"Okay," said Cody, "Thanks, Gate. 7 out."

Great! thought Cody. That's four now. They would have to make do with who had already arrived. Cody was HAZWOPER trained, and he was also a welder. However, he was supposed to be the foreman tonight. He'd have to work wherever he was needed.

"Cody?" said a female voice from the doorway. He spun on his chair.

Darlene Sehna was a petite, 35-ish woman. Her short blond hair was mostly covered by the white hardhat she wore. She was a highly skilled engineer. She had been on the Project since the beginning, and had quickly earned the respect of the crews--not an easy task in the demanding construction world where many men were still chauvinistic toward women. 

Unlike most engineers who had much book-learning, but little construction experience, Darlene came from a family of construction workers. She could not only draw and order the right quantity of materials, but understood how the drawing was constructed. She didn't argue when people in the field told her something wouldn't fly. She simply changed the drawing to fit the real world. 

She also had a mouth that would make a sailor blush. Another legacy of her construction family. She held her tongue at work with unconcealed effort. Outside work, she swore a blue streak, making her the hit of the bars when the crew went out drinking. Her size didn't fit her strength, either, and she often surprised much larger men by winning at arm wrestling.

She looked now like it was a major effort not to swear. "What's up, Dar?"

"Well, first," she said, setting her teeth, "We didn't get the steam tracing up in time. We have major violations of the Clean Air Act. The emissions were high in several categories. We're really going to get hammered for this."

Cody winced. On his shift, no less. "Can we blame the power company?" he asked with a hopeful smile.

"Sure, and I'm certain they'll be understanding when we explain that the secondary generator didn't fire." she responded tauntingly.

"Oh, no doubt," said Cody sarcastically. "What else?" Not that he wanted to know.

"We've got a HazMat team in the firing chamber in fresh air. The drum melted all over the burner elements. Progress is slow, but they should have the elements fixed sometime in the next couple of hours."

Cody nodded. That was about the progress report that he expected. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," she responded. "The catalyst bed took a beating from all the low temperature smoke. We have major carbon buildup all along the bottom of the bed."

"Can we get it cleaned up in time?" he asked.

"Not a chance in Hell," she responded. "But we do have enough catalyst left over that we can replace the bulk of the damaged material. It'll be a little tight, but I think it'll work sufficiently to sell the project. We can get additional catalyst out here in 24 hours."

"Any danger of emissions with less than maximum catalyst?" Cody asked concernedly. No sense in pushing their luck.

"I don't think so, but . . . we'll have to see. When we get a re-start, we'll have a better idea. We'll just do a drum or two of the light stuff, you know, the mustard gas and rocket fuel. We'll stay away from the serious chemicals until we have the catalyst."

"Okay. Any more?" asked Cody.

"Not unless you count that everybody has a real short temper right now. A couple of guys have already snapped at me when I made requests. We'll have to give everyone a break soon, or we'll start having accidents."

"Yeah, I know," said Cody, rubbing his forehead with his hands. As foreman, he was responsible for making sure the crews had adequate breaks. "But some of the guys just got here." 

He checked his watch. "It's just an hour or two before dawn. We'll give them a breakfast break. We won't get into the catalyst bed until after breakfast. Since we'll need Marcus later as a hole watch for the guys replacing the catalyst, have him run into town now and grab a bunch of fast food sandwiches. In the meantime, we'll have to watch people closely. We've managed to get to start-up without a recordable injury. I don't want to end the project by getting someone hurt."

Darlene nodded agreement.

Cody put his hardhat back on, grabbed his radio from the charger, and followed Darlene back into the turmoil in the next room.

### Chapter 21

#### Joe Martin's Office 

Pueblo Record 

March 29 - 11:45 a.m. 

"There has to be somebody!" exclaimed Mulder in frustration.

They had spent the last several hours thinking of anyone that could conceivably help halt the incinerator from starting up tonight. Mulder had contacted Steve Forman and explained the problem. Steve was now working on contacting people at the State level. 

Mulder and Scully had burned up the cellular phone lines to every contact they had in Washington. Joe had contacted everyone he knew, period. Joe now listened to Mulder and Scully banter as he lay his head on his desk.

"Mulder," said Scully tiredly. "We've contacted everybody. The problem is that we don't know the hierarchy out there. Nobody will listen to us."

"Okay, then," said Mulder with sudden resolve, slamming his palm down on the desk, "If we can't get them to listen to reason, we'll just have to shut it down ourselves until they hear us."

"Listen to yourself, Mulder," responded Scully. "We don't even know for sure that anything is going to happen. This could still just be a coincidence. We could be letting our imaginations get the better of us."

"It isn't a coincidence," said Mulder with feeling. "I don't know why, but I do know with absolute certainty that something is going to happen out there. And it's going to happen tonight."

"And what facts do you base your 'absolute certainty' on?" she asked.

"A feeling," he admitted with a shrug. "But, Scully, how many of my feelings have been right in the past?"

Scully sighed. They had been through his before. "Which only means that the odds are stacked against you this time. I say that we adopt a 'wait and see' attitude. We have the antibody. We can administer that to surrounding residents if need be."

The words 'surrounding residents' caught Joe's attention. "Oh, God," he whispered, lifting his head from the desk. 

Mulder and Scully looked at him. He was distinctly pale.

"What, Joe?" asked Mulder with anxiety.

"You said 'surrounding residents', Dana," said Joe. "It's not that easy."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Haven't you noticed how clean the air is here?" he asked with rising misgiving.

"It's a nice change from Washington, but what does that have to do with anything?" asked Mulder.

"Pueblo used to be an industrial town. In some parts, it still is. We have a major steel mill, operating around the clock. Haven't you ever stopped to wonder why the air has no smog?"

"Not really," said Scully. "It never occurred to me."

"They discovered during the horse-drawn buggy days that there are strange atmospheric conditions above Pueblo. Trade winds blow over the City constantly, removing the pollutants and taking them to . . ." he said, pausing for effect.

"Where?" asked Mulder and Scully simultaneously.

"Denver," concluded Joe, his eyes wide. "Nobody in Pueblo will die. And we wouldn't be able to get to people fast enough in Denver."

Scully felt a shudder go through her. "Are you absolutely certain of this?"

Joe said, "As positive as I am that the sun rose today." 

As he spoke, Mulder was already dialing a number on his cellular phone. He called Steve again, who gave him the number of the National Weather Service in Boulder. After a brief conversation, with Joe standing by looking mildly annoyed that his word had been questioned, Mulder responded.

"What Joe said is accurate, mostly," he said. "The trade winds actually take the pollutants to a small city called Golden, west of Denver. The National Weather Service was of the opinion that if a chemical pollutant did reach the trade winds, they would drop out of the atmosphere sporadically all along the Front Range. They were quite curious why I was asking, but I managed to slide out from underneath. How did you know, Joe?"

"The Pueblo City Council recently signed an extension to an old agreement with Golden, that provides yearly compensation to Golden to help clean up their air due to the output by the steel mill," he said. "I had forgotten about it, until something just clicked."

"Then we need to make sure that the incinerator doesn't start up tonight," said Mulder. He looked at Scully, silently asking for her support. She breathed deeply several times, not looking at him. When she finally met his gaze, she nodded her head. Right or wrong, if there was a chance that people might die, she would be there beside him.

"Which leads us back to the question, what now?" said Joe. "I've called everybody I know."

Mulder's pocket began to ring. He pulled out his cellular phone and raised the antenna.

"Mulder," he said.

"Steve here. I've tried everybody I can up here. The Governor's office said that they can't proceed without some proof. I don't think they would hesitate to shut down the plant, but I've got to give them some hard facts to work with. Anything, Mulder. Be creative." said Steve.

Mulder laughed bitterly. "I can be as creative as you want, Steve, but I have no facts. Only a gut feeling."

"Which is usually accurate," replied Steve, with an audible sigh. "If you come up with anything, call. And be careful," he said. "Don't go off half-cocked. Think things through first."

"I don't need to," said Mulder with a crooked smile, "That's what I have Scully for."

Scully looked at him curiously, wondering what the other side of the conversation was.

"Right," said Mulder. "Okay, 'bye."

"What was that all about?" asked Scully when he hung up.

"Inside joke," he responded, "You wouldn't get it."

They looked at each other and laughed.

"Enough with all the gaiety," said Joe with a growl. "We've only got a few hours left. What do we do?"

Mulder and Scully sobered instantly. He was right, of course. They were getting punchy.

"God, the only person we've met that we haven't talked to yet is the guy from the airport," said Scully.

"Oh, yeah," said Mulder, "I almost forgot about him. What was his name again?"

"His first name was Tom, I remember. For some reason, his last name reminded me of a tomato sauce."

"Well, it was Italian. But I don't remember it, either. I remember his hands, though. Larry Byrd had nothing on that guy."

They furrowed their brows, thinking hard. Scully shook her head. The name just wasn't there.

A thought struck Joe. "Blond?" he asked. "Tall guy, real knowledgeable? Tom Corsentino, maybe?"

Mulder and Scully pointed at each other suddenly, saying in unison, "That's it!"

Mulder continued, "How would you know a plane greeter in Denver, Joe?"

"You guys have no idea how lucky you just became," responded Joe incredulously.

"How so?" asked Scully. "Who is this Tom Cor. . . whatever his name is?"

"Cor-sen-tino," said Joe slowly. "He's the man who is going to make your life much simpler." Joe looked smug. "Let me tell you a little about Tom. He's the son of a produce farmer, Isaac Corsentino, and his wife, Tammy. He's one of five boys. The other four sons look just like Isaac, short and swarthy. Tom, though, is the spitting image of his Mom. She's Scandanavian stock, tall and very curvaceous. She's managed to keep a 38-24-36 figure after five sons."

Mulder looked at Joe with interest.

"Anyway, Tom works at the airport due to a change in heart. His original love was . . . chemistry!" said Joe.

Scully looked at Joe with interest.

"He has a Master's Degree in molecular biology. He worked at the beer company in Golden for several years, and suddenly decided that he wanted to be around people, not molecules. His mother was heartbroken, but has managed to support his choice. The most interesting thing about Tom, though, is that Tammy is the Regional Director of Front Range Natural Gas."

Mulder and Scully both looked at Joe with interest.

"If there's a way to turn off the plant, Tammy will know about it," said Joe.

"Why didn't you mention this before?" asked Mulder.

"I don't know Tammy," said Joe apologetically. "I'm in the Elks club with Isaac, but I don't see him very often. I don't really consider that a contact. If you've met Tom, and he remembers you, he'll help. He finds things like this fascinating."

Mulder had already gotten out his phone. He dialed information, and obtained the general number of the Denver International Airport. He dialed and spoke briefly with the person answering the phone.

"The clerk said that Tom's on vacation this week. She didn't have a number where he could be reached. I think she was trying to throw me off base. But I thought I heard someone in the background say that he was visiting his parents," said Mulder.

"If he is, we're in luck," said Joe. "The Corsentino Produce Farm is just a few miles East of town. I'm sure the number's in the book."

Scully was already flipping through pages of the telephone directory. "Should I look under business or residential?" she asked.

"It should be the same . . . no, wait," he said, "Try the residential number. I think they finally moved the office to the warehouse."

###  Chapter 22

#### Corsentino Produce Farm 

Vineland, Colorado 

March 29 - 12:15 p.m. 

Tom Corsentino yawned groggily. He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. Noon already! It was nice of the family to let him sleep in, since he had arrived shortly after 1:00 a.m. His brothers and Dad were no doubt more than halfway through their work day. He thought briefly about joining them in the fields, but shook his head. He'd only be in the way. He had been gone long enough that he probably didn't remember how to do things anymore. He saw that his older brother, Tony, had left the coffeemaker ready to start. Good old Tony! He'd have to remember to thank him at dinner. He flipped the switch and padded to the bedroom to get some clothes on.

By the time he returned, the coffee had finished brewing. He poured a three-quarter full cup and filled the rest of the cup with fresh cream from the refrigerator. 

He took a sip and sighed. 

Real cream! He had forgotten what fresh dairy cream tasted like. He sat down at the kitchen table, looking out the long picture window at the already green backyard. The weather had been warm, and the trees had already started to leaf. He took another sip of coffee. It was going to be a relaxing two week stay.

No problems.

No worries.

The phone rang.

He picked up the receiver on the second ring. He nearly started to say 'Hello', when he remembered where he was. Dad wouldn't be appreciative if he didn't keep up appearances.

"Good morning, Corsentino Produce Farm," he said, in his best business-like voice.

A female voice that he had heard somewhere before said, "May I speak to Tom Corsentino?"

A thousand thoughts flickered through Tom's mind. An old girlfriend? Someone from work? They wouldn't try to call him back off his vacation, would they? He thought about playing dumb, responding as though he were someone else, but at length decided to tough it out.

"Speaking," he said.

"Tom, I'm not sure if you remember me. We met at the airport several days ago. You spoke to me and my partner about the buffalo," said the pleasant female voice.

Oh, yeah! The pretty redhead and the dark-haired man!

"I remember," he said warmly. "But, I should warn you that I'm on vacation. I can't do much from here."

"Where you are now is exactly where you can help us," she responded with a smile in her voice. "My name is Special Agent Dana Scully of the F.B.I. My partner is Special Agent Fox Mulder. We need your help, Tom."

Warning flags raised in Tom's mind. His curiousity was tempered with suspicion. What would the FBI want with him? He could already see the danger this posed to his relaxing vacation. He was not a stupid man. Oh, well, thought Tom, might as well go for it!

"How can I help you, Ms. Scully?" responded Tom cautiously.

"We were wondering if we could meet with you somewhere to discuss a problem that has arisen," said Scully. "We believe that you could be able to help us with a rather touchy situation."

"Could you tell me a little more about it first?" he asked. He had no particular reason to fear the FBI, but strange things had happened in the world lately.

"Well," she said hesitantly, "As I said, it's a rather touchy situation. I think it would be wiser to speak in person. However, I can tell you that one of the reasons we contacted you is because of your background in chemistry."

Now, how had they found out about that? They seemed to know a great deal about him. More than he was comfortable with. His curiousity flared. He thought about everything he had ever done. Could something have come back to bite him? No, he had led an extraordinarily common life.

"Okay," he decided, "Why don't you come out to the farm. We don't have to worry about anybody hearing us here. Do you know where it is?" They probably did, he thought.

"I know the general area, but why don't you give me directions," she responded.

He gave explicit instructions. The farm itself was easy to find by all the road signs, but the house itself was more difficult.

"We can be there in about an hour. Will that be all right?" she asked.

"Sure," he said. "I guess. I have to admit a certain curiousity about all of this intrigue."

Scully laughed, a clear, bell-like laugh. "It's more intriguing than you can imagine, Tom. We'll see you in about an hour."

"Okay, 'bye," said Tom.

He sat thoughtfully for a few moments, reflecting on the possible nature of the upcoming visit. As he stared into space, he suddenly realized that the kitchen was a mess! His family must have left in a hurry. Dishes were in the sink unwashed, and the floor hadn't been vacuumed. 

He sighed. 

Housework on vacation! 

He reluctantly stood, drained the last of his coffee, and began the task of cleaning the house for visitors.

* * *

Tom had just finished giving the dusting a lick and a promise when the doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. Damn! The visitors had arrived in forty-five minutes. He had finished the dishes, the bathroom and the vacuuming, but his bedroom was still a mess. He quickly shut the door to the room on his way to answer the front door. At least the mess was out of sight.

He opened the front door, and recognized two of the people on the front stoop through the screen door. The third man he didn't know.

"Agent Scully," he said cordially, "Welcome." He shook her hand warmly. He turned to her partner and said, "Agent Mulder." He shook his hand as well.

"Tom," said Mulder, "Good of you to see us. I don't know if you know Joe Martin," he said, gesturing toward Joe. "Joe is the editor of the Record."

Tom recognized the name. He turned to Joe and said, "I don't believe we've had the pleasure. I've heard my Dad speak of you. I guess you're lodge brothers?"

"That's right," said Joe, in a friendly manner. "How are he and your Mom?"

"They're both fine," he said, opening the door wider. "Please come in."

The visitors entered the house and Tom led them down the front hall to the living room.

The living room was a spacious room with a vaulted ceiling uncommon in a century-old farmhouse. Tom, his Dad, and brothers had spent a summer renovating the room to their Mom's demanding standards. Wood paneling, real wood, not press board. gleamed on the walls. He had hated to oil the wood as a child. As an adult, he understood the necessity of oiling the wood due to the dry climate.

Scully and Mulder sat down on the comfortable cream-colored leather sofa, while Joe sat down in a matching armchair.

Tom stood nervously on the antique cream-colored oriental rug with various accents of blue and gold.

"Can I get anyone some coffee or a soft drink?" he asked. These people were guests, after all.

"Coffee would be nice," said Scully. "Cream, no sugar."

A woman after his own heart! "Then you'll be happy to know that we have fresh dairy cream." He saw her eyes light up.

He turned to Mulder. "Anything for you, Agent Mulder?"

"No, thanks," he said. "I'm fine."

"Mr. Martin?" he continued.

"A cola would be great," said Joe.

Tom went into the kitchen. He looked in the refrigerator, and yelled to the next room. "We only have diet!" he called. "Is that okay?"

"Diet's fine," said Joe.

Tom appeared a few moments with a tray. He set down an iced glass of soda on the coffee table in front of Joe, and handed a cup of coffee to Scully, keeping the second cup for himself.

He sat down and waited expectantly for them to begin.

Mulder and Scully looked at each other, and then at Joe. It was silently decided that Scully would start.

"Tom," she began, "As I said over the phone, one of the reasons that we decided to contact you was because of your background in chemistry."

Tom nodded, urging her to continue.

Scully began to relate the sequence of events that had led them to Tom's living room. She purposely didn't mention Mulder's theory about Blue Lights, since it would only confuse the discussion. 

She took her first sip of the coffee, and closed her eyes in pleasure. Pure Heaven! She didn't allow herself real cream very often, and this was a treat. She could see that Tom appreciated her positive reaction.

She continued her dissertation. When she reached the point in the story about testing the liquid from the drum, she switched to technical terminology that left Mulder and Joe completely out of the conversation.

Tom responded with intelligent questions about the testing procedures, and began to look more and more concerned as Scully continued to relate her findings.

"Okay," he said after a lengthy pause in the conversation, "You've sufficiently scared the pants off of me. But I ask again, how can I help?"

Scully looked at Mulder, handing over the reins of the conversation to him.

"To be honest," began Mulder, "You can't help, per se. But you can see the need to shut down the incinerator?"

"At least until it's been determined that the plant is operating properly," responded Tom with a sharp nod.

"We've tried to go through the proper channels. They won't shut down the plant without proof that there absolutely is something wrong with the incinerator. It's a Catch-22 situation," he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "If the plant doesn't shut down, how will someone determine that it's not operating properly?"

"I see your point. I ask again, what can I do?" Tom was becoming more nervous as he realized that they were trying to convince him to agree to whatever they asked, before they asked it.

"We need to take the bull by the horns and shut down the plant until we can convince someone to check it out. The only ways that we have determined that this can work is to shut down the whole plant. Only the electricity and the gas can do that, short of sabotage," said Mulder. His voice was alternately pleading and resolute. Tom had learned both of these psychological tricks in school. He wasn't that easily taken in. 

Suddenly, one word fixated in his brain, and he instantly saw where this conversation was leading.

"Oh, no," he said, setting his coffee cup down. His eyes were wide. "I see where you're headed. You want me to talk to Mom!"

Scully could see that they were losing him fast. "Tom, please! You can see the danger! All we're asking is that you have her tell us what to do. She'll have no involvement at all."

"You guys don't know my Mom!" he said with rising anxiety. "She's a formidable woman. If I could get her to understand the danger from a chemical standpoint, she has her career to consider. She's almost due for retirement. What possible stake would she have in helping us?"

Mulder held back a smile as he heard Tom say the word 'us'. It was only a short step now to convince him.

He responded in all seriousness. "Her stake is your protection."

"In what manner?" Tom asked suspiciously.

Joe cut in. "You went to college here, Tom. You must have taken at least one class in weather for your science major."

"Yeah, so?" asked Tom with narrowed eyes.

"Where would the protein travel if it got caught in the trade winds?" pressed Joe.

"Along the foothills, up to Gold. . ." he responded, stopping suddenly when he realized the scope of the question.

"Right to your doorstep," said Joe. Joe had done additional research after they had talked to Tom, and found that Tom lived in Golden.

The three visitors allowed the silence to stretch as Tom stared into space, absorbing the facts and correlating the data.

Tom wasn't actually correlating data, as such. The phrase, 'Oh, shit--oh, shit--oh, shit--oh, dear' kept repeating itself, again and again, in his mind. He knew why they had come to him. Understood what he had to do--and dreaded the very thought.

Scully broke the silence. "Will you help us?" she asked softly.

"What choice to I have? Of course I'll help you," he said resignedly. "I have friends in Golden. I've started to date someone." He repeated, "What choice do I have?"

Scully looked at her watch. "We don't have much time left. Can you call her right away?"

"I can call her right away. I don't know if I can see her right away, though. She's a busy woman," said Tom reluctantly.

He stood up, gathering courage. He let out a few deep breaths.

"Of course, you guys realize that you've ruined a perfectly good vacation," he said with feeling.

The three guests looked at him apologetically.

"I mean," he continued, "If we aren't able to stop the plant from starting up, I won't be able to face my friends, knowing what I do," he said with anger. "And even if we do manage to stop the plant this time, what happens next time? I'm going to have to live in fear every day that this thing could come back."

Mulder, Scully and Joe had no easy answers for him. Tom knew that, but he had to say the words.

"We'll just have to keep a close eye on the plant," said Joe quietly.

"I'm sure that will be a piece of cake once the Army is running it," he replied bitterly. "I've lived here all my life, Mr. Martin. I know how the Army will try to cover this up. How do we find out next time?"

Mulder rushed in before Scully could stop him. "Hopefully, the same way we found out this time."

"Which is?" asked Tom. He had been wondering how this all came about.

Joe decided that Tom would dismiss Mulder as a flake if he continued. He cut in quickly. "We think that we were notified by the phenomenon Blue Lights." That would throw Tom off the track.

"Blue Lights?" asked Tom. "That spooky . . . thing on the other side of town?"

"The very same," said Joe. 

Scully noticed that Mulder was leaving the conversation to Joe. She was glad he had decided to leave it to the locals.

Tom considered this. He knew Blue Lights existed. He had seen them himself, along with most of his friends. "Why do you think that?"

"I've researched Blue Lights for years, Tom," responded Joe. "This is the first I've heard of the Lights being seen outside of their lot."

The Editor's fascination with Blue Lights was nearly legendary. There had been a feature in the paper nearly every year of Tom's life. "Outside?" he asked, "You mean somewhere else in the City?"

"I mean at the Depot, and at the Track right when the engineer was killed," said Joe.

"Wow!" said Tom, impressed. "I can see why you felt the two incidents were connected." He pointed a thumb at Mulder and Scully. "How did you convince these two?"

Scully bit back a smile. 

Mulder deadpanned, "It took some work, but the FBI is open to unusual theories."

Joe nearly choked on his drink.

"Well, all we can do is hope that they'll let us know again," responded Tom in awe. "I can live with that. Let's call Mom."

He went into the kitchen and picked up the phone off the wall. He quickly dialed his Mother's work number, and waited as it rang.

Scully took another sip of the quickly cooling coffee. She heard Tom ask the receptionist if he could speak with his Mom.

"Thomas," said Tammy Corsentino, in a business-like voice, "How nice of you to call."

"Hi, Mom," he said. "How's my most favorite mother today?" He was laying it on thick.

"I'm your only mother, Tom, dear," she replied sweetly. "What do you want from me? Money?"

She was on to him. He responded quickly. "No, no, Mom. I just need a few minutes of your time. I have a couple of friends here at the house. We'd like to stop by for a bit to talk to you."

Joe took another sip of his cola, and heard Tom say, "Well, let's see, the editor of the paper, Joe Martin, is here. You know him, don't you?" 

After a second, Tom said in a sing-song voice, "Yes, Mom, I cleaned the house first." Mulder winced. It was the same question his own mother would ask.

Then, "Oh, just a couple of Joe's friends." 

There was another pause, and Tom said, "No, it really needs to be this afternoon. Can you squeeze us in? Pleeease?"

Scully understood why Tom had taken the call in the kitchen. She wouldn't want anyone to see her plead with her Mother, either.

"Great!" said Tom. "Thanks a lot, Mom. We'll see you in a few."

Tom came back into the living room. "Okay, guys, it's set. She'll see us at 2:00."

"Us?" asked Mulder.

"If I'm going to see my Mother, you're going to see my Mother. I'll need all the help I can get," he responded flatly.

The three guests realized that Tom had the upper hand. They stood together.

Scully said, "We'd better get started then. Will it take long to get there?"

"No," said Tom. "Just about 30 minutes. It's closer than the paper office. I'll take my own car, so I can come back here."

They left the house, with Joe following Tom's mini-van to the Front Range Gas Company office.

* * *

The receptionist announced them, and Tammy Corsentino came out from the back of the building to greet them.

She smiled as she saw Tom, and held out her arms to hug her son. "Tom, honey," she said. "It's good to see you. Sorry I wasn't awake when you got in this morning."

Tom returned the hug. When he broke the hug, he introduced the trio with him in turn. "Mom, this is Joe Martin, Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully." The three noticed that he specifically did not mention their affiliation with the FBI.

Tammy Corsentino shook hands with each person. As she did so, Scully had time to size up the woman they were going to try to convince to help them.

Joe had been right about her figure. It was stunning. Added to that was her amazon-like size. She was nearly as tall as Mulder without heels, who stood 6'1". With short-heeled pumps, she looked him square in the eye. She had short up-swept hair blond hair, and the same fine-boned features as Tom. 

She did not look like the mother of five children. She didn't look old enough to have had one. Her blue dress suit was the same shade as her eyes, and tailored to be business-like, but still showed all of her best assets. The intelligent blue eyes appraised each of them coolly. Tom was right, she was a formidable woman.

Mulder seemed to think so, as well. He put on his best business attitude. No sweet-talking today.

"Mrs. Corsentino, thank you for seeing us today," said Mulder with a polite smile.

"I'm seeing you at Tom's request," she said crisply. She had made it clear with those few words that she would not otherwise interrupt her day for them.

Tom said, in his best public relations voice, "And we all realize what a busy schedule you have today. We won't take up too much of your time."

She looked at him in surprise, and then graced him with a warm, motherly smile. "You've learned your lessons well, son. You can butter up people with the best of them." She laughed gently. "Okay, what's on your mind?"

Tom smiled at the trio with him. He had won her over, for the moment, at least.

They adjourned to her office, where they spent the next 20 minutes explaining the same details that they had explained to Tom. Had Tom not been with them, she would have dismissed them outright. However, she respected Tom's judgment, and knew that he wouldn't have approached her if there weren't cause for concern. She listened to each of her guests in turn. She finally turned to Tom, and asked his honest opinion.

"My honest opinion?" he asked. He was no longer speaking to his Mother. He was speaking to an equal. It was a big step for the two of them. "I believe them. I haven't actually reviewed the test results personally, but Ms. Scully is a medical doctor and a qualified scientist, and the information she provided me holds water. If there is something wrong at the incinerator, I have to help put a stop to it. If there's nothing wrong, nobody is harmed. Now that I know, however, I won't be able to go to sleep at night unless I do something about the problem," he said.

"To help them," he concluded, his hands spread in an appeal, "I need you. Can you see your way clear to give us the information we need?"

Tammy looked at the four of them across her desk, who looked back openly and earnestly. She rested her elbows on her desk, and steepled her fingers in front of her mouth. She tapped the fingers together as she thought.

She had decided. "I'll help you to the extent that I can. I can provide you with detailed drawings of the piping system at the incinerator. You didn't get them from me, though. Let me make that clear!"

"Of course not," responded Scully. "We would never involve you directly."

"And I can 'accidently' leave the tools that you need to do the job in Tom's car, to bring home for me, naturally." she continued.

"Naturally," said Mulder with his most winning smile. The smile had an effect this time. She smiled back, conspiringly.

"I can't provide any manpower. You're on your own there. My manpower resources are tracked to account numbers," she said apologetically.

"We didn't expect any employees to participate. Can you tell us what we need to do?" asked Scully.

"Yes, of course," said Tammy. She went out of the office and returned with a roll of blueprints. She spread them out on a table in the corner of her office, weighting the ends of the roll down so the print would remain flat. They discussed the best scenario for turning off the gas, and how to ensure that it could not be turned back on easily. When the four people left, they carried a copy of the blue prints and Tammy's briefcase, which contained the tools necessary to do the job.

Tammy saw them to the door, and pointedly said to Tom, "Thanks for taking by briefcase home. I won't be home until late. Let your Dad and brothers know that they're on their own for dinner."

"I will, Mom," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "Thanks a lot!"

He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and they left.

###  Chapter 22

#### U.S. Army Chemical Disposal Project 

Pueblo, Colorado 

March 29 - 3:45 p.m. 

Darlene yawned tiredly. She had been working for thirteen hours straight, but they were almost done. She had finally sent Cody and several others home at 6:00 this morning to get some sleep. Power had been restored at 6:30. They had removed the catalyst and replaced most of the damaged component with a fresh supply. She had samples taken of the carbonized catalyst to be tested.

The secondary generator had been repaired. There would be no more power outages tonight. The HazMat team had cleaned the molten plastic out of the burner openings, right before they ran out of supplied air. In all, they should be able to re-start in the next 30 minutes. 

She and Fred were the only two 'white hats' on duty now, with Cody and Bill gone. She barked orders like a drill sergeant, keeping the people on task, and making sure they used proper safety precautions.

While not formally one of the management staff, Fred recognized that Darlene knew her stuff, and he allowed her to keep shouting orders, since it kept the crews moving.

After they had the crews out of the units, and all systems had been checked, Fred began the countdown to re-start. Each man took a post. All of the crews were familiar with start-up procedures and went immediately to their positions.

"3 . . . 2 . . . 1," counted Fred over the radio. "Re-start!"

Darlene listened with pride as the massive generators began to pulse again. The room throbbed with the intensity of the huge machinery. She watched the control board closely.

The gas was turned on, and the burners began to fire. Fred watched through the viewport as the flames adjusted themselves to burning a pale blue flame. He looked for any sign that the burners were still clogged. No orange or yellow flames leapt up. The color and height of the flames was identical across the line of burners.

Darlene called over her shoulder, "We have temperature, Fred."

She looked up again, and furrowed her brow. The gauge for Burner #5 was jumping around erratically. "Hey, Fred!" she shouted to him over the sound of the generators.

He turned, and saw her wave him over. When he reached her side, she pointed to the board. His gaze followed her hand. "Know anything about this? It's freaking out."

"Yeah," said Fred with an annoyed sigh. "It's been doing that all day. I think the gauge is bad. The flame looks fine."

"Let me take a look," she said, standing up and walking over to the viewport. She was more intimately familiar with the design of the plant than anyone else, since she had drawn most of the prints.

She looked out into the chamber. She watched the flames carefully, just as Fred had. Something looked strange, though. She couldn't put her finger on it instantly, but something didn't look quite right. "Has anyone checked the actual temperature in the chamber, Fred?"

"You mean with a sensor probe? No, why?" he asked.

"Well, it's probably nothing, but something looks funny. Just a gut feeling. When we get the catalyst tomorrow, let's run a full test. I'll bring in some probes and we'll run a few tests. Would that be okay? Just for my peace of mind?" she asked slightly apologetically. She didn't normally question the instruments, but something just didn't feel right.

"Fine by me. Check in with Cody when he comes back on shift later." said Fred. Then a thought struck him. "Wait, though. The probes won't be affected by the chemicals, will they?"

"Oooh, I hadn't thought of that! I'll have to check. I don't know," she said. She would have to check the manufacturer's information on the probes. "I'm sure it's no big deal, though. If we run the test a week from now, it probably won't make any difference."

The first test with the solid rocket fuel went according to plan. The catalyst bed was checked carefully after the first burn. A small amount of carbon was found around the far right side of the bed, but it was attributed to left-over residue from the flame soot. They ran one test of liquid chemical, a World War I mustard gas. The burn went fine, with no emissions problems.

Darlene checked her watch. The ceremony to formally turn over the plant to the Army was scheduled to start in only a few hours! She still had to get home and change into formal wear. She'd feel like the walking dead, but with the stunning dress she had found for the occasion, she'd be a good looking corpse. The second shift was beginning to come on, those who weren't already there. She left quickly, heading straight home for a quick shower and several cups of coffee.

###  Chapter 23

#### Joe Martin's Office 

Pueblo Record 

March 29 - 7:20 p.m. 

Mulder and Scully were dressed in black again. It was just beginning to get dark. They met in Joe's office to discuss the final plan. Tom met them there, also dressed in black. He felt like a spy. It was a shame that he could never tell anyone about his part in this. Mulder and Scully had suggested that he not come. It might be dangerous. He had second thoughts at that point, but decided, what the hell! he'd only go around once in life. Seize The Day, as they say!

Joe also insisted on going along. He would drive the car and wait for them to finish. He wasn't reckless enough to try to keep up with the three physically fit young people, but he could still do his part.

Mulder and Scully had studied the blueprints at their motel until they knew the system by heart. They would be hitting the main shut-off valve just outside the plant, but inside the fence. After they turned off the gas, they would use the tools they obtained from Tammy Corsentino to remove the valve wheel and stem. They had a plug to insert in its place. The plug took a special wrench that the staff probably wouldn't have on hand. They hoped it would be enough to stall until they could talk to someone in authority. They hoped that by doing their sabotage during the opening ceremony, one of the high officials would be there. Whether they would be listened to would depend a great deal on luck.

 

* * *

Cars began to arrive for the opening ceremonies. The crews had cleaned up the mess from the emergency shut-down, and everything was in place. The crews had changed into fresh coveralls. It wouldn't do to have people think there was actual work involved in getting this plant running. 

The dignitaries all wore gold hardhats, identifying them as guests. Cody and Bill had returned, and stood proudly as they were introduced to the Army command staff. Cody and the rest of the staff would be working for a private contractor, but would have to answer to the Army staff, as well. Cody made a note of ranks and names. He had never been in the service, but understood that most of the people here were high-ranking officials.

The cluster of gold hardhats wandered through the plant on the official tour. They murmured amongst themselves at the proper intervals, clearly impressed with the project. Darlene led the tour. She had received several compliments from guests and crew alike on her appearance. She beamed with pride as she pointed out features of the operation. One or two of the guests had the technical expertise to ask intelligent questions, but mostly, the guests simply absorbed what she told them.

In the warehouse, several crew members, including Bill, were removing drums for the first official burn. As he rolled one out of line, he noticed a flash of red. He looked down, and saw a red 'X' near the bottom of the drum. The mark was identical to the one on the damaged drum earlier. Although this one looked okay, he was taking no chances.

"Andre!" he called across the room.

Andre turned and looked at him questioningly.

"Take this one first. It's marked like the one I told you about before that was damaged," said Bill.

"Bummer!" said Andre. "I'll run it to the head of the line right now." He picked up the drum on the dolley and wheeled it quickly to the front of a long row of drums near the conveyor belt.

* * *

Mulder, Scully and Tom moved quietly in the gully toward the Depot. Most of the snow had melted, and the wet sand was difficult to walk through in some spots. Tom held the pack with the tools. Mulder and Scully planned to gain access through the fence, and then let Tom in. Scully hoped that her access point hadn't been discovered. It had been difficult enough getting in before. There was probably no chance at all now.

Luckily, they hadn't found the spot where she had undercut the soil under the fence. The three worked furiously, chipping hard sandstone enough to widen the hole so that Tom and Mulder would fit through it. Scully went through first, and started chipping from her side, as well.

It took several precious minutes, but they made the hole big enough for Mulder to fit under the fence. He squeezed through the small opening, wiggling his shoulders to get them through. With Mulder through, they began anew to widen the hole enough for Tom, who was taller and wider than Mulder.

Tom dropped the chisel that he was using, and bent down to pick it up. The sound of the chipping stopped suddenly, and Tom started to stand up to see what had happened. Luckily, he looked up first, and found that Scully and Mulder were now kneeling with their hands behind their heads. Two tough-looking men, dressed in black, held automatic weapons on the two from behind. He heard one of the men telling Mulder and Scully in a loud voice to stand up and come with them. 

Tom remained hidden until they were gone. Then he waited several more minutes while he slowed his heart rate. Would this end so quickly? 

No! He still had the tools and the know-how to do the job. If Scully and Mulder got killed, he, at least, should try to stop the plant from starting to burn the chemical. He would simply turn off the gas and go back to the car. If the two FBI agents didn't come out soon after, they would return to town and decide what to do next. The lack of gas would stall the project, at least.

* * *

The guards shoved the two agents roughly toward the building. Scully stumbled and Mulder stopped to help her up. He received a rifle butt in his back for his trouble. The two guards were the same as the other night. Unfortunately, they recognized the two agents, and were treating them with less than respect.

"Move along," said the first guard again, bumping Scully in the back with the rifle. 

At least Tom had not been captured, thought Mulder. If he had the nerve to continue, at least the gas would be shut off. He had decided that Tom would be able to find the nerve, if he didn't get caught first.

The entered the warehouse by the side door. The rows of barrels looked the same as the last time they were here. Mulder looked into the sea of black plastic, noting that the drum with the tape was not to be seen. There was an empty spot in the row. That worried him. He nudged Scully and motioned to where the drum used to be. She too noted that the drum was missing, and gave Mulder a startled look. Had they been too late? Mulder shrugged slightly. He didn't know, either.

The guards had them stand side by side against the wall, their hands still behind their heads.

"If you'd just let us explain," began Scully.

The guard sharply backhanded her across the mouth. Mulder heard the cracking sound of cartilage meeting flesh.

"I didn't tell you to talk," said the guard with menace, echoing the words she had used on him.

"Hey!" shouted Mulder, and he started to leap forward. He stopped quickly and was pressed back against the wall by the business end of the other guard's gun.

Scully held up a hand to stop Mulder, signalling that she was okay. Her cheek and jaw were turning bright red, and she spat a mouthful of blood and saliva on the floor. She felt gingerly around her mouth with her tongue, and noted with annoyance that he had loosened a filling.

"Is that the best you can do, soldier?" she asked sarcastically.

Mulder gave her a warning look. Getting shot in the head wouldn't serve any purpose.

The guard, furious now, was about to unleash another blow, when a commanding voice came from above them. "Enough!"

The guards, as well as Mulder and Scully, looked up to the second floor, and saw a distinguished black man with a greying beard standing there. X! thought Mulder and Scully simultaneously.

X was dressed in the uniform of a full bird Colonel in the Army. Mulder wondered whether they had learned something new about this enigmatic man, or if he had a rack of similar uniforms for every branch of the service at home in a closet. He suspected that the second option was true.

"Yes, sir, Colonel, sir!" said the second guard, who was guarding Mulder.

X walked down the stairs slowly.

The other guard looked at him hesitantly, hand still raised to strike. "But, sir, she's the one . . ." began the guard.

"Sergeant, I gave you an order!" said X menacingly. "I'm well aware of who she is."

"Yes! Sir!" said the guard sarcastically. He was seething.

X walked slowly toward the guard. "The fact that this young woman defeated you in unarmed combat is not sufficient reason to beat her. I believe you owe 'Captain' Scully an apology."

Mulder looked at him in surprise.

Scully's jaw dropped, despite the throbbing. She could see a brief twinkle in X's eye, which quickly disappeared.

"Are you injured, Ma'am?" X asked quietly.

"Uh, . . . 'Captain', sir?" said the guard, thoroughly confused now.

X only looked at him.

The guard swallowed slowly, knowing his career was over. He would end it with dignity, however. "Ma'am, this soldier apologizes for his conduct. It was inexcusable to strike a superior officer."

"It was inexcusable whether or not I'm an officer, mister!" she said with feeling. Her jaw was going numb.

X motioned to the other guard to lower his weapon. "Mulder, Scully, come with me." He turned and walked toward the stairway. The two followed him, feeling slightly disoriented.

In the upper office, with the door closed, X motioned them to sit down.

"I'm curious, Agent Mulder," began X. "Why did you risk your lives coming back out here? I could just as easily have allowed the guards to slowly kill you."

Mulder realized that he had found a willing listener, possibly one with enough power to stop the project, and proceeded to tell the story for the umpteenth time.

X broke in from time to time, asking questions. Most of the questions were quite technical, which surprised Mulder. Scully answered them with ease. 

Who was this man? thought Mulder.

After Mulder had concluded his story, he watched X carefully. X seemed to weigh the possibilities, and decided that the two agents were probably on to something--again.

"I admit that your story has intrigued me," said X. "But there's nothing I can do about it tonight. I don't have the authority to shut the plant down." Mulder and Scully both sighed deeply.

"But," he continued, "If it can be 'accidentally' shut down tonight somehow, like maybe after I leave the room, who's to say what happened? Tomorrow, I can probably do something."

Mulder and Scully exchanged looks. Was this for real? Was X willing to let them simply walk away to complete their sabotage? X stood and started to leave the room. 

He was serious!

As X reached the door, Scully's curiousity got the better of her. "Sir?" she said. X turned.

"May I ask why you went along with my little charade from the other night?"

"You may ask, Agent Scully," said X with a small smile. 

He started to leave, and then stopped. "I will tell you that the Sergeant really was put on report that night for dereliction of duty. He shouldn't have allowed you to sneak up on him. By the way," he noted, "That was a superb technique. I'll have to make sure to train my people not to fall for it again." 

He continued, "Plus, the Sergeant's a loose cannon. I decided that he should be humbled a bit before he was reassigned."

"Thank you, sir," said Scully.

X turned once more before he left the room. "Your father was a good man, Agent Scully. You should be proud." 

He closed the door.

Scully digested what she had just heard silently. Mulder said nothing while she was lost in thought.

When she looked at him again, she was ready to leave.

As they walked down the stairs, alone, the two guards at the bottom of the stairs averted their eyes. As they passed the guards, each guard held out his weapon to the agents.

Mulder and Scully looked at them in surprise.

The first guard said, "The Colonel said we were to offer you our weapons. You may take them for your mission, if you choose."

Mulder couldn't resist the temptation. "Did the Colonel tell you what our mission was, soldier?"

"No, sir," he replied respectfully. "We were only told to offer you the weapons."

Mulder and Scully looked at each other in disbelief and shrugged. They took the offered weapons, and calmly walked out the back door.

* * *

Darlene handed all of the dignitaries ear cuffs, which were easier to get on and off than plugs. Each guest took off their hardhats, put on the bulky headsets and put the hardhats back on top.

The generators roared to life. Several people were surprised by the intensity of the noise. The small room throbbed with sound. The guests watched quietly as the auger machine destroyed a canister of solid rocket fuel, and the furnace turned it into base elements. There was a smattering of applause.

Then it was time for the liquid weapon test. Bill loaded the drum with the red 'X' onto the conveyor belt. The barrel traveled on the belt until it reached the end of the belt, where it stopped on a platform. Bill waited for the signal to drop the drum.

* * *

Mulder and Scully realized that they wouldn't have time to find Tom. They hoped he knew his job. Still wearing black, and now carrying automatic weapons, they burst into the room where the guests were gathered.

"I'm sorry, folks," said Mulder with a shout. He didn't have the benefit of ear plugs. "I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the controls."

Several officers started to reach for their sidearms. Scully wasted no time in stepping toward the group.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience," she yelled, over the machinery, "But you'll have to drop your weapons." She shouldered the bulky automatic weapon for effect.

The officers were aware of the proper manner to surrender their weapon. They each reached into the holster, lifting the gun gently by two fingers. They dropped them to the floor in front of them.

"To me, please," said Scully loudly.

They each kicked the weapons across the floor to Scully.

"What's this all about?" asked Cody angrily.

Mulder responded with a shout. He knew his ears would be ringing the rest of the night. "There's a serious problem with your incinerator. We have to shut it down."

"Shut it down?" asked Darlene incredulously. "We just started it up! What could be wrong?"

"I can't tell you the specifics, but the temperature is wrong. It's not burning at 800 degrees."

Fred broke in, his hands still in the air. "How could you possibly know that the temperature is not right? We just now fired it up!"

"As I said," Mulder replied, "I can't tell you the specifics."

He had been looking at the control board. The hours spent reviewing blueprints and design layouts weren't in vain.

"What's wrong with that gauge?" he asked Darlene, pointing with the barrel of his gun. He quickly decided that she was a person in charge.

The gauge for Burner #5 was jumping around again, Darlene could see. "We have a faulty gauge. We'll be replacing it in the morning."

Mulder took that in. Yes, he decided, it would explain a lot. "I don't think it's the gauge," he said to Darlene. "I think the gauge is accurate. I think the burner's the one jumping around. I can't let you proceed until it's checked out."

"And just how do you plan to stop us?" asked Cody. "You're outnumbered. Even if you shoot us all, there are more people upstairs. Watch!" he said. He raised is radio to his lips. "Begin test, Unit 2!"

"Damn You!!" exclaimed Mulder. "Tell him to stop!"

"Gee, sorry," replied Cody, sarcastically, as he dropped the radio on the floor, "I guess the radio's not working."

Mulder ran to the viewport window and watched in dismay as a barrel shot out of the chute, liquid freely flowing over the inconel trays. His stomach suddenly knotted as the drum rolled slightly, and he saw the bright red 'X' on the bottom, just before it melted away.

The liquid began to steam and then to boil, as Mulder looked on helplessly.

"It's one of the experimental drums, Scully!" he shouted.

Scully looked at him in alarm.

Mulder watched as the liquid began to evaporate, leaving less and less, and . . .

The fire went out!

Tom had reached the gas main!

The viewport grew black, as the control board showed the quickly lowering temperature.

"What did you do?!" asked Cody frantically.

"Gee," said Mulder sarcastically. "I don't know. Shut you down, maybe?"

Tom burst into the room. "I did it!" he exclaimed.

He looked from the group of Army officials, hands in the air, to Scully and Mulder, who were holding weapons on the group.

"Gosh, I must have missed something!" said Tom. "The last time I saw you guys, the guns were on you!"

"Never leave us alone," said Scully, with a smile. "You can't tell where we'll end up."

### Chapter 24

#### Joe Martin's Office 

Pueblo Record 

March 30 - 10:15 a.m. 

"I can't believe you two managed to convince the Army officials that something was wrong," said Joe incredulously to Mulder and Scully as they sat across from him in Joe's office. "And they didn't even arrest you for holding the group at gunpoint!

"Well, it helped that Darlene Sehna had already suspected a problem," said Mulder. "It didn't take long to find the steel plate that had been installed incorrectly. The design called for the plate to be cut 16 inches shorter. Once the plate was cut properly, the temperature was restored to the full 800 degrees."

"And," added Scully. "Tom and I were able to determine that the protein hadn't had time to develop before the gas was shut off."

"Sorry I missed all the excitement," said Joe. "Working on my laptop wasn't nearly was entertaining as your night was."

Mulder and Scully smiled. Scully winced slightly. Her jaw was still bothering her.

They made their farewells, and headed for the car. As they stepped into the bright sunshine from the relative darkness of the building, they stopped short. Hovering above their car were three blue lights, in a triangle. The lights came closer as they stood there entranced. 

There was no sound of cars, no breath of wind.

Scully suddenly gasped. She heard no voice, but . . . felt . . . an overwhelming sense of gratitude. She couldn't move to look at Mulder, but was sure that he had felt the same thing.

Then it was gone.

They stood there on the steps of the newspaper office, looking at each other with awe.

"There you guys are!" said Joe, coming out of the building. He was holding Scully's purse. "I was looking for you! Where did you disappear to?"

"Good question, Joe," replied Mulder.

"A very good question," said Scully.

Joe looked at them in confusion.

###  Chapter 25

#### Forman Residence 

Outside of Denver, Colorado 

April 1 - 7:45 p.m. 

Mulder and Scully never made it skiing. Both of their bodies were too battered to withstand the strain. They did, however, manage to spend several relaxing days in Denver with Steve and Ginny Forman.

Mulder had been right. Ginny was a wonderful woman. She and Scully soon became fast friends. Minutes after meeting her, Scully felt as though she had known Ginny all her life.

Scully found out that Mulder was an accomplished horseback rider. He and Steve spent much time wandering on trails through the foothills reminiscing, leaving Scully to listen raptly as Ginny told her of several past escapades of Mulder and Steve.

Scully had found it thoroughly amusing that Ginny called Mulder 'Foxy'. Ginny was only the second person that Scully knew of to call him by his first name--and live. The other person was a charming old woman in Arizona that the two had met on a previous case.

Scully had been surprised, and pleased, to learn that the Formans had purchased tickets to attend the road production of a Broadway musical she had been wanting to see for some time.

It took Scully many minutes to get ready, applying layer after layer of makeup to her bruised jaw so she didn't look like a battered woman. The theater was the finest she had been in for quite some time, and the production was wonderful. It was every bit as wonderful as the critics had claimed.

By the time the two returned to Washington, they felt pleased to have closed the case, and well-rested.

###  Chapter 26

#### U.S. Department of Transportation Test Center 

Pueblo, Colorado April 3 - 2:15 p.m. 

Harry Christensen read the stack of letters again for the third time. They had all arrived within a day of each other, and they all said the same thing each time he read them.

He picked up the first one, from the Association of American Railroads. "Our investigation has been completed. We find no evidence of operator error. Cause of collision: Unknown. No further action will be taken at this time."

The second letter was from OSHA. "We have determined that no fault exists for the accident causing the death of the employee. No further action will be taken. Fines assessed: -0-."

The third was from the EPA. "We have found no evidence of a chemical discharge. No further action is to be taken at this time. No fines will be assessed."

The fourth and fifth letter said the same thing.

Harry sat at his desk, shell-shocked. Mulder must have had some powerful favors owed to him. It was the only explanation. He'd have to remember to thank him. Then he thought better of it. Perhaps he didn't want recognition. He had never called to ask about the status. Better to let it lie.

* * *

Joe Martin was still holding interviews with employees of the paper that swore that they saw Blue Lights hovering over the newspaper building--in broad daylight. Everything tallied with Mulder's and Scully's account.

Until that exact moment, he really hadn't believed that Blue Lights was involved.

It was good to have friends in high places.

Plus, Janna Juarez was going to make it. She was out of intensive care, and was expected to make a full, but slow, recovery. She had been told that her job would be waiting when she returned.

* * *

Tim Johannsen came into the office late. Bill was sitting at his desk, looking like the rug had been snatched from under him.

"What's up?" asked Tim, concerned.

"Gone . . ." said Bill. "All of it's gone!"

He looked dazed.

"What's gone?" asked Tim.

"The reports, the samples, the animals. All gone!" said Bill with a shrug.

Tim knew immediately that Bill was talking about the protein that he and Dana had worked on so hard. "Where did they go?"

"I don't know," said Bill. "It was all just gone this morning. I've looked everywhere. Nothing else was touched, only the research on the protein," he said in dismay. "And they were thorough. No computer records, no paper trail, nothing. The computer files have been overwritten somehow, not just deleted. Even the drum outside that we took samples from is gone."

"Well," said Tim resignedly. He wasn't really surprised. "That's it, then. No fame. No fortune. Just back to the daily grind."

"You know," said Bill, as they started running the morning drug tests, "It's kind of scary to think that it can all disappear that easily. No record, no trace, probably no fingerprints."

"We can't change the facts, Bill. So, it's best not to think about it," said Tim. "Sometimes it's easier that way.

###  Epilogue

#### FBI Headquarters 

Washington, D.C., 

April 8 - 7:10 a.m. 

Scully paid for her plate of food and sat down at the far side of the cafeteria. She looked down at her breakfast with disdain. Coffee, no cream, a half of a bagel with cream cheese and a small bowl of fruit was not what she wanted. She had envied the agent in front of her in line that had grabbed a warm, gooey sweet roll with a pair of tongs.

Her therapy was going well. She was able to use the exercise machines, and the therapist had told her that she would be able to go back to running in a week or so, as long as she didn't push herself. Until she could run to keep her weight down, she was having to watch her diet. She picked up the bagel, eyeing it with suspicion. She was growing tired of bagels. She didn't particularly care for them.

As she was putting the bagel in her mouth, she heard a sound that made her head--and half of the heads in the cafeteria--turn.

"SCULLY!!" came the roar of Mulder from down the hallway. He sounded like a wounded bull.

He burst through the double doors of the cafeteria by punching them open with straightened arms. The doors hit the opposite walls with a BANG! In his hand, Mulder carried a brown press board file folder, identical to the ones in which the FBI kept their medical records.

_Uh, oh_ , thought Scully. She set down her bagel. This was going to be messy.

Other people, seeing the expression of rage on Mulder's face, and knowing what it meant, quickly scurried out the door. 

Some left their food. Others grabbed their plates and left with them.

Too soon the cafeteria was emptied. They were alone.

He stalked toward her, eyes flashing. "Seven years, Scully!" he said, shaking the folder toward her, and pointing at her with the index finger of his other hand. "Not ten, Scully. Not even nine! Seven years since my last tetanus shot!"

Scully looked at the expression on his face, and almost burst out laughing. Looking again, she decided that discretion was the better part of valor. She kept a straight face.

As he neared her table, she tried to decide whether to play innocent, or find cover until he calmed down. He didn't look like he would accept the innocent plea.

She suddenly bolted from her chair, heading for the back stairwell. She tipped her chair over intentionally, hoping to provide an obstacle.

He saw her sudden movement, threw down the file folder and bounded after her. He cleared the chair like an Olympic hurdler. She was a few steps ahead of him, however, and made it out the door before him.

She took the stairs, two at a time, heading for the roof, where she hoped she could barricade the fire door until he calmed down.

He was hot on her heels. "You can run, Scully, but you can't hide!"

She laughed then, at the cost of a few precious breaths.

As she bolted past the third floor, she realized that she still had four floors go to. 

She called back over her shoulder, "You wouldn't want me to mention to anyone about your weekend with Steve in Brighton, while you were in England, would you?"

Mulder faltered, dropping back a step, "How . . .?" Then answered his own question. "You wouldn't dare!" he said, indignantly.

Actually, she wouldn't. It was a good threat, though.

He gained a step on her. She increased her speed. I'm definitely going to have to start running a full seven miles a day if I ever want to outrun him again. 

Two thoughts crossed her mind as she climbed. First, if the climb didn't kill her, and Mulder didn't kill her, her therapist would definitely kill her. Her second thought, as she passed the fourth floor was, _I wonder how many bags of sunflower seeds this is going to cost me to get out of?_

\---------------------- ---The End--- ----------------------


End file.
